


may we meet again (we always do)

by forbiddenquill



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A lot of history related events, Basically just Clarke and Lexa finding each other in different lifetimes, F/F, Reincarnation AU, This took me like a month, You've been warned, also ANGST lots of it, what the fuck is a happy ending anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forbiddenquill/pseuds/forbiddenquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her story has already been written in her mind’s eye; they always meet in times of war and Lexa always loves the girl with the sun in her hair and the sky in her eyes and there is no changing the fact that they’ve always been doomed from the start.</p><p>(or: the fic where Lexa falls in love with Clarke in every lifetime)</p><p>(or: the reincarnation au nobody asked for)</p>
            </blockquote>





	may we meet again (we always do)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [like ships in the night (passing me by)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055462) by [viansian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viansian/pseuds/viansian). 
  * Inspired by [clean up the dead you leave behind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125672) by [BerryliciousCheerio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerryliciousCheerio/pseuds/BerryliciousCheerio). 
  * Inspired by [between being young and being right (you were my versailles at night)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319172) by [BerryliciousCheerio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerryliciousCheerio/pseuds/BerryliciousCheerio). 



> This took me like two months to make (I spent a lot of that time banging on my keyboard and basically crying) so I hope you people enjoy this really fucking incredibly long reincarnation fic because honestly? I'm so tired of seeing this in my drafts. I need to push it out now. 
> 
> A huge THANKS to my Beta reader Johanna (agentdanny on Tumblr). You're awesome!! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic!
> 
> P.S. I am not a history major

* * *

 

_i knew you before_

_this was not your face_

_and that was not your laugh_

_but your eyes look like home_

_-_ Emery Allen

* * *

 

(They always meet in times of battle)

*

(Her name is always Lexa)

*

**Ancient Egypt [3400 BC]**

Lexa first meets her in Ancient Egypt and her name is Cora.  

The land is harsh and stifling, the heat cracking the skins of the people as they walk around doing what is necessary in life. The men carry weapons and the women carry around their children.  Lexa’s hut is near the river so it’s a long walk from the village to the watering area, where most of the women have taken their clothes for cleaning there. Camels are present as well, drinking water and flicking their tails at the children who pass by.

Lexa spends most of her time watching the women, chewing on tobacco leaves and sharpening her knives. Bandits are very common around these parts and since she’s in a secluded area, she likes to keep prepared. It doesn’t help with the fact that the women are unprotected, since the men are out looking for food or grazing for crops.

She likes to think of herself as their protector, a guardian sent from the god Horus to protect them. Well, that’s what her spear whispers to her while she sharpens the blade. Her eyes move skip from one place to another, never settling in one area for too long. The women are laughing, splashing water against each other and scolding their children. It’s a peaceful scene and Lexa’s lips twists into a smile as she watches.

It doesn’t take too long for the scene to change.

She spots the first bandit hiding in the riverbed when the rest of his group attacks. The women all drop their clothing before scooping their children up in their arms. Lexa is quick on her feet, jumping across the grounds, heedless of the fact that she is barefoot and the sand is sizzling hot. The sounds of battle—war cries, screams of agony and pain, blades clashing against one another—are ringing in her eardrums. She is running as fast as she can, her spear clutched tightly in her hand and she’s about to overthrow a man from slitting a child’s throat when the first bandit tackles her to the ground.

Lexa had thought that the bandit was a man but now that she’s being pinned down against the heat of the sand, she realizes that that’s not the case. The body on top of hers is slim and curvy, not the way men’s bodies are broad and muscled. And even though the bandit is wearing a shawl to hide her face, Lexa can still see the locks of golden hair curling near her shoulders.

“Stay still,” the bandit hisses in Egyptian.

“Make me,” Lexa spits.

Lexa still has her spear clutched tightly in her hand and the bandit seems to have forgotten all about it because Lexa manages to swing her weapon against the bandit’s head. Her lips twist into a smirk when she hears a satisfying crunch against her fingers. The enemy lets out a yelp of pain before rolling off Lexa and collapsing against the sand. 

Somehow, during the high of the battle, Lexa has forgotten about other casualties. She stands on her feet and swivels around, her spear kept at bay. It takes her half a second to assess the situation and her shoulders tense when she spots the body of a small child with his throat slit, lying near the riverbed whilst clutching a toy in his hand.

Something inside her screams.

There are about six bodies (most of them children, one adult) but no signs of the bandits. Lexa stabs the ground with her spear, feeling completely and utterly useless at the fact that she has saved no one. Her chest tightens with anger and she swiftly turns around to face the bandit who pinned her down amidst the battle.

She’s about to snap (or hit her with the spear again) when she realizes that the bandit has taken off her shawl, revealing a face that looks far too young and innocent to be a bandit’s. Her golden hair glows in the sunlight and it’s almost difficult to take a good look at her, especially since she looks like she’s glowing. The bandit’s forehead is bleeding, blood dripping down against her cheeks and Lexa almost drops her spear a fraction.

“Where are your men?” Lexa demands harshly, tightening her grip on her spear.

The lone bandit snorts as she moves to stand up. “Not my men,” she says, “I’m only a distraction. I’m nothing. They raid the weak while I distract the strong. It’s our strategy.”

“They’ve left you behind,” Lexa observes.

The bandit shrugs. “It is what it is,” she murmurs. When she raises her face, Lexa is startled by the blue in her eyes. It’s not common for people in this land to have blue eyes and Lexa is more intrigued rather than angry now.

“Where is your clan headed?” Lexa questions, her tongue sharp.

“If the weakest link doesn’t know how to catch up then she is left for the snakes,” the bandit states as she raises her arms in surrender and Lexa is not imagining the frustration in her tone.

Lexa runs a finger against her the blade of her spear, smoothing her face into a neutral one. She can see that the bandit is staring at the weapon in her hand but Lexa suddenly doesn’t have the urge to use it anymore. She straps it against her back before turning to face the bandit, whose hands are empty and who looks confused at why the weapon has been safely stashed away.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” the bandit asks.

“Waste of life,” Lexa answers smoothly, “The gods would frown on me.”

The bandit drops her hands. “I didn’t take you for a person who cares much about what the gods think.”

Lexa takes a step forward. The bandit doesn’t move, just eyes her warily. And Lexa thinks that this girl is smart enough not to run away, especially since they both know that Lexa can easily outrun her or throw the spear at her unsuspecting head. The heat is unbearable but somehow, they manage to endure it.

“What do they call you?” Lexa asks.

The bandit meets her gaze defiantly. “Cora,” she says and her voice is firm and proud.

 _Pride is a deadly thing_ , Lexa thinks.

But then again, they both have the same thing in common.

Lexa pulls her shawl over her face and narrows her eyes at the girl named Cora. (It really is getting harder to look at her, especially in this kind of weather.) She walks towards the bandit, keeping her head down. She can feel sweat running in steady streams against her cheeks.

“Do you have anywhere else to go?” she asks Cora.

Cora doesn’t miss a beat. “Nowhere,” she answers.

“Good.”

And that’s when Lexa pulls out the hidden blade from her back. She moves quickly, grabbing at Cora’s arm and twisting her around. She pushes the weapon against the back of her spine, not close enough to inflict pain but close enough to let the bandit know that Lexa can hurt her if she wanted to. Cora makes a small noise of surprise and pain but she’s careful not to struggle around too much. Lexa leans in close, breathing heavily.

“Take me to your bandits,” she hisses, “Blood has been shed; blood must have blood.”

Cora’s eyes slide towards her. Then she laughs; it’s clear sound, as sharp as the blade Lexa has in her hand and it surprises the captor.

“Waste of life, you say?”

“Horus would smite me if he knew I had let such injustice slide,” Lexa answers.

Cora’s shoulders shake as she laughs again and Lexa thinks that she’s crazy, crazy in a way that makes her seem like the sanest thing in the entire land.

.

They walk for days, Cora staying by her side with her wrists bound behind her back. Lexa’s village burned to the ground yesterday, the news spreading by horseback. Lexa knows she shouldn’t have left, especially since she knows she’s no hero. The guilt settles in her stomach like quicksand and she learns to move forward with the new weight on her shoulders.

She knows that Cora’s clan burned her village down.

And she knows Cora knows too.

They don’t speak much, only when Lexa asks for directions and when Cora asks for water. They’ve grown so used to the silence that when night falls and Lexa’s about to tuck in for the night, they’re both surprised when Cora says,

“Why do you care about them?”

Lexa doesn’t say anything, just leans forward slightly until she’s leaning her elbows against her knees. They don’t make a fire, since they know that it’ll attract unwanted attention. They stay in the cold, freezing but they don’t say anything about it, no words of complaining escaping past their lips. They both know it’s a sign of weakness and Lexa thinks that Cora isn’t the type of person who likes to show weakness.

“I don’t understand,” she says, her voice scratchy. Their supply of water is running low and Lexa hasn’t had much of a sip.

Cora’s hands are fiddling against her restraints. Her blue eyes are visible, even in the dark. Lexa focuses on the stars in the sky, twinkling lights spattered against the black. She thinks that Nut, the sky goddess, must be watching them, for the stars seem especially bright tonight.

“Your village,” Cora says, “you seem to care for them, but I did not see you shed a tear when you heard of their passing.”

Lexa’s jaw clenches. “It’s not your position to be questioning me,” she says.

Cora laughs. “I’m not questioning,” she says, her voice turning soft, “I’m just curious.”

Lexa picks at the sand idly. It has cooled off remarkably and she allows her shoulders to relax from the strain of walking all day. Cora seems genuine enough, and if they reach their destination, it won’t matter what Lexa has told her.

They’ll both be dead anyway.

“I cared for them greatly,” she says, closing her eyes as the memories rush past. “They were my family. Even though I stayed outside of their space, they treated me the same. I ate with them, I trained with them, and I grew up with them.” She stops, gathering her thoughts. “I cared for them.”

Cora is watching her carefully. “But you don’t show it,” she says.

Lexa’s fingers twitch towards her spear. Cora notices but she doesn’t move.

“It is weakness,” Lexa says, “If my enemies knew of how much I care, they’ll laugh the same way mankind had laughed at Ra.”

Cora smiles. “It’s a lonely life.”

Lexa corrects her, “It is a safe life.”

Silence again. If Lexa closes her eyes and tunes out Cora’s steady breathing, then it’ll almost feel like home.

.

They meet their doom when instead of them finding the bandits, the bandits find them.

Lexa doesn’t expect the attack, especially since Cora has been saying that it’ll take another day to find them and Lexa believes her.

(It’s a mistake)

At first, she thinks that it’s just going to be another day out in the sun, another day of hiking through the heat and the sand and enduring the pain. She thinks that it’s just going to be another day.

She doesn’t expect it to be her last.

They’re about to climb the crest of a small hill when Cora suddenly stops walking next to her. Lexa whirls around, her hand immediately going to the blade in her belt as her mouth forms the words ‘ _What are you—?”_

And that’s the exact moment the knife buries itself in her turned back.

Cora has the decency to at least look shocked. She stumbles forward, her lips forming a word but then there are bandits everywhere, jerking Cora to the side and forcing her to the ground. And as Lexa falls down to her knees, her entire body burning with pain, she realizes that she never told Cora her name.

(And she kind of wishes she had now)

Blood pools around her feet and she scrambles to pull the weapon out of her back. The blade is slippery when her fingers close around it. This is not what she wanted—this is not the kind of death she wants to stand for. But she’s no longer standing. She’s losing blood and she’s dying and her hands are shaking when she drops the knife.  _Geb, let me live_ , she prays to the Earth god. She struggles to rise to her feet because her fight  _can’t_ be over—not now, when she still has an entire village to avenge.

Pain shoots through her spine and she falls on the ground again. Somebody moves in front of her vision, kicks her against the face and she stumbles back, her ears ringing as she loses the blood that she so desperately needs at this moment. She claws at the ground, looking for her weapon. Somehow, in the midst of the madness, she had dropped it on the sand. And now she can’t find it anywhere.

A male voice slices through her pain like a knife, his tone aggressive and foreign. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about; he speaks another language. She opens her eyes, feels blood dripping from the corner of her mouth.

A man is standing over her body, holding the blade she pulled out from her back. He has long wavy hair, tied in a band behind his head. A shawl covers the lower part of his face and there’s a recent cut near his neck. His eyes are dark when he looks down at her. It’s not hard to tell that he’s frowning.

He says something sharp in his foreign language and Lexa is more than surprised when it’s Cora who answers. She comes into her vision, looking unhurt and Lexa is hit with the realization that this is  _her_  group, her clan. They are the ones who burned her entire village to the ground.

“May Anubis have mercy on your soul,” she manages to choke out.

The man pulls down his shawl, gives her a look that suggests she’s crazy. Cora is quick to avoid her gaze.

“There are no gods here,” he says. “Just us.”

“ _Fenuku_ ,” Cora hisses when she sees the man raising the blade.

“Let her have her gods,” the man named Fenuku says, kneeling down. Lexa’s pulse quickens and she moves to sit up. Fenuku pushes her back down, however. His gaze is harsh, predatory even. Now that he’s leaning close, Lexa realizes that he doesn’t look old. He looks tired but young, his face haunted with life. “Say hello to Anubis for me,” he whispers.

Normally, when Lexa pictures her death, she pictures herself gazing defiantly at her killer, mouth twisted into a scowl. But now that it’s finally here, she doesn’t do that. Instead, she lets her gaze move towards Cora, who is standing behind Fenuku. They are surrounded by the rest of the bandits but truth be told, when Lexa locks eyes with Cora’s, it almost feels as if it’s just the two of them.

Cora doesn’t look away this time.

“It is over,” Cora says just as Fenuku brings the blade down.

*

 (She doesn’t meet Anubis when she dies.)

*

**Greece [449 BC]**

Lexa sees her in Greece next, where her name is Cassandra and she is as lovely as a bloody red rose with the thorns still intact.

Athens is a beautiful city, marked with art and paintings, every street a dedication to the patron goddess Athena. It is nestled in between mountains and the wind brings in the scent of the mountainside. Though far from the sea, the city blossoms with a kind of reverence that would’ve made Athena proud.

Lexa’s name is Alexandria in this life. She is known to be the quickest girl of her time. Beautiful but deadly. A snake disguised as a lovely flower. She is the daughter of a war hero and a seamstress, two of Athena’s most powerful traits. People whisper that she is a descendant of the goddess herself but Lexa dismisses such whispers; people have come to their doom due to such a petty desire to be compared to the gods.

Lexa is naturally gifted with her hands. She spends her time weaving things out of silk, fastening tunics and designing clothes meant for most of her friends. Sometimes, she offers them to the patron goddess with a hushed whisper that seeks to save her city from the hands of the Persians.

Lexa has a friend named Gunther. He is now far from home, in a place where his life doesn’t matter. He fights for his country and Lexa didn’t known what to say in order to fight for him to  _stay_.

He leaves a hole in her heart, one that can’t be filled.

She’s walking through the fields of Athens, near the mountain Piraeus when a blonde girl steps out from the trees, giggling and smiling. She’s wearing a tunic that reaches down to her knees and her hair curls near her shoulders. There is a crown of flowers on top of her head and her smile is as bright as the sun, especially when she thinks that no one is looking.

But Lexa is. She stops in her tracks and tilts her head to the side, frowning. Something inside her chest stirs but doesn’t wake. She’s never seen this girl before but she feels as if she should  _know_  her. There’s something eerily familiar about her smile and her laugh and the way her hands twists at the sides, like she’s just itching to grab something.

(Lexa is suddenly hit with an image of blood pooling at her feet, blood that seems to be leaking from all sides and she feels as if someone’s stabbed her in the back with a knife and suddenly, she can’t breathe anymore)

Before she can move, the girl turns her head and catches sight of her. She stops as well and Lexa can see the confusion and puzzlement in her eyes. She is sure that it must be mirrored in her own.

The girl smiles uncertainly. “Hello,” she says, her voice unsurprisingly bright.

“Have we met before?” Lexa asks.

“I think I would remember if I did,” the girl answers. She smiles when she says it.

(Lexa feels that stab again, harsher this time, with more finality)

The girl steps closer. She is strikingly beautiful and Lexa almost believes that she’s in the presence of Aphrodite herself. However, she closes that train of thought, knowing how much the gods don’t like to be compared.

"Your name," Lexa asks, raising her chin, "What is it?"

“They call me Cassandra,” the girl says, her voice soft.

“Alexandria,” Lexa says in return, “but I prefer to be called Lexa.”

“Lexa,” Cassandra echoes. She ducks her head, hiding a shy smile.

(She  _knows_  her; Lexa just knows that she knows her. She just doesn’t remember where or when)

“And what are you doing in these parts of the country, Cassandra?” she asks.

Cassandra’s eyes twinkle when she laughs. “Ah,” she murmurs, never taking her gaze off Lexa, “The country is at war; we must learn to find peace between the battles.”

Lexa can’t exactly pinpoint the moment where she falls in love.

.

They meet as often as they can, in broad daylight, in the middle of the night, during moments where they crave each other’s company. Lexa understands how Cassandra feels; Cassandra, who was born to a family of wealthy republicans and who has never tasted true freedom against her lips. They find solace in the countryside, where they sit on the grass and talk about things they haven’t told anyone before.

Cassandra is an old soul; she loves everything about the earth and the sky and the sea. She loves to draw, she loves to create pictures, she loves the way her hands feel around charcoal, she loves the way her heart flutters when she sees colors bursting from the horizon of the sun. She speaks true and she speaks with a passion that Lexa envies.

They speak about the war, about the Persians and the Ionians; they speak about kings and about gods, about queens and goddesses, about the people caught in between. Lexa tells her about Gunther, who has been her most faithful and loyal friend from the beginning; Gunther, who has been shipped off to fight a war that will end his life; Gunther, whom she misses everyday. In return, Cassandra tells her of an old lover named Brandon, who touched her with a fire that he couldn’t keep in himself, who whispered sweet nothings to her in the middle of the night, and who was killed off in a fight against the Persians.

“I’m sorry,” Lexa blurts out when she hears the story. They’re lying on the grass in the middle of the night, watching the fallen warriors spattered across the sky. Cassandra’s body is turned towards her and her fingers reach out to trace patterns against the palm of Lexa’s hand. The gesture is intimate and soothing and Lexa feels the whisper of a knife grazing her skin.

(She doesn’t know why she thinks of knives when she thinks of Cassandra; it’s almost as if the two are made to be connected somehow)

Cassandra smiles sadly when Lexa tilts her head to look at her.

“It is not your fault,” she murmurs. “Sometimes, the gods pick out the best flowers from the garden.” She stops, curling her hand around Lexa’s and then pressing a soft and chaste kiss against the skin. Lexa tries her best no to shiver. “It’s not your position to worry for me, Lexa. The pain has faded.”

“But you are young,” Lexa insists; “you shouldn’t have to feel that kind of pain.”

Cassandra closes her eyes. She looks startlingly beautiful, especially with the way the moonlight sheds an illumination against her pale face. Lexa’s chest tightens and she almost withdraws her hand.

“Lexa,” Cassandra whispers her name, almost like a prayer.

“Yes?”

Cassandra keeps her eyes closed but she inches closer to Lexa. Her warmth and scent is intoxicating and some part of Lexa wishes that she can drown in her.

“Someday, you’ll realize,” the blonde whispers, her voice soft, “that in life, you  _will_  lose people. People you care about, people who walked past you in the market, people who made you laugh and cry, people whom you love”—she pauses and Lexa’s breath catches in her throat when she slowly opens her eyes—“The gods do not care if you are young or if you are old. It does not matter. What matters is what we mortals do about it.”

“What are you trying to say?” Lexa asks.

Cassandra sits up, pushing her weight off with her hands. She turns towards Lexa, leaning over her, golden curls framing her face and Lexa forgets how to breathe. She forgets how to breathe and how to inhale and how to move, especially with the way Cassandra is looking at her, all soft and beautiful, the blue in her eyes matching the blue in the night sky.

“We are at war, Lexa,” Cassandra murmurs, placing her hands on either side of Lexa’s face. Her breath is warm, her fingers cold. “Our lives are short; we must be reckless, we must do foolish things. We must have the bravery to reach for the things that we desire.”

It doesn’t take long for Lexa to catch up. Cassandra’s lips flicker into a smile.

“Damn the gods,” Lexa whispers, before leaning forward and kissing Cassandra and tasting the freedom that she’s never had.

(Cassandra’s mouth tastes like knives as well; sharp and bitter, reminding her oddly of blood)

.

Lexa loses her again.

(She doesn’t know why the  _again_  is appropriate but it seems right)

There is talk of the Persian army wanting to attack Athens and there is talk of an evacuation around all sides, people walking in groups and whispering in hushed voices. There are more guards, more soldiers, more people willing to risk their lives to fight for the king. There is bloodshed in the air and Lexa can taste it everywhere she goes. Her parents are worried for her wellbeing, therefore tightening their grip on her, refusing to let her go anywhere without a guard.

Lexa hasn’t seen Cassandra for a few weeks now and it terrifies her.

Her guard’s name is Mark. He is well groomed and silent, a force to be reckoned with. He follows her at a short distance away. Even though she can’t see him, she knows he’s there. He takes his job seriously. He never smiles, never laughs. He is a tiresome company but she agrees to let him stay.

On the day the world burns down, she asks him to accompany her to the mountainside.

He nods without saying anything. They walk on the way there, Lexa pulling at her tunic so that it won’t get scraped by the grass. Mark follows suit, keeping his hand on his sword and keeping his silence. Lexa doesn’t think she’s ever heard him speak.

Lexa thinks that Cassandra won’t be there. They are in a war. Surely, the girl has more sense than to go dawdling around the countryside, especially in a time where the rumors are starting to spread…

“Lexa!”

Lexa has barely climbed the last steps of the hill when somebody charges at her, arms wrapping tightly around her neck. She sees a flash of gold and white and for a moment, she is speechless. Her heart threatens to explode in her chest and there is a second where she doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything, except stand there and let Cassandra embrace her.

 _Oh gods_ , she thinks when she finally wraps her arms around the trembling girl,  _I love her_.

“Cassandra,” she murmurs.

“You’re here and you’re alive,” Cassandra whispers, her breath tickling Lexa’s neck. “I thought you were gone—I thought you had evacuated—oh gods, you’re  _here_.”

Lexa sees Mark circling the perimeter, checking for enemies or spies. For once, she is grateful for his silence.

(She thinks she sees him smiling but it could be the sun)

Cassandra steps back. There are tears running down her cheeks but she is smiling and she is looking at Lexa like she’s found her purpose in life.

 _I love her, I love her, I love her_ , Lexa thinks to herself, her heart swelling.

“What are you doing here?” Lexa asks, not too unkindly, “There is war, Cassandra. There are Persians at all sides—there is talk of Athens evacuating and yet—”

“I had to know if you were safe,” Cassandra answers fiercely. She grabs at Lexa’s hand, pressing her trembling fingers against it. “I can’t bear the thought of you dying—I can’t bear the thought of losing someone important to me again.”

 _Eros is here_ , Lexa thinks when she sees the unabashed emotion in Cassandra’s eyes, the pure, undiluted understanding that she, too, feels the same way;  _Eros is here and I'm falling the way mortals fall when they love._ Lexa feels that blade again—the knife she feels every time she looks at the young girl and it's like a painful reminder of what is yet to come.

She can feel her features softening. “Cassandra—” she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say next ( _I can't bear to lose you too_  comes to mind) but her thoughts are cut short when Mark appears from scouting around. His face is full of alarm and by instinct, Lexa reaches out for Cassandra, curling their fingers together.

“They’re here!” He unsheathes his sword. “They’re bringing torches—they plan to burn down Athens.”

Lexa looks at Cassandra, whose eyes are wide. “My family—” she says when Lexa cuts her off,

“There is no time!”

Cassandra roughly pulls her hand away from Lexa’s. There is a fire in her eyes— the same fire that only appears when she talks about art.

“I’m not leaving them,” she hisses.

“Cassandra—” Lexa is about to say when Mark’s hand closes around her wrist.

“We must go,” the guard says, “The city is already evacuating.”

Lexa meets the blonde’s gaze. “Please,” she begs, her voice breaking, “Don’t—you’ll die.”

Cassandra’s face falls and Lexa thinks that she’s got her convinced. Her heart soars like a Harpy but it stumbles down quickly when then the young girl leans forward, her hands resting on Lexa’s shoulders, squeezing so tightly that it hurts. Cassandra's blue eyes are dark and full of a fiery passion that takes Lexa's breath away and Lexa can feel her eyes stinging with unshed tears as Cassandra kisses her mouth for what is most likely the last time.

Lexa closes her eyes and tries to make it last but Cassandra is already pulling away, choking back a sob as she lets go of Lexa’s shoulders.

“Come back to me,” Lexa murmurs, tears in her eyes.

Cassandra’s voice is firm when she says, “We will see each other again.” She moves away but not before adding, “This is not over.”

She runs to the other direction and Mark drags Lexa away before she can follow.

.

(That is the last time she sees Cassandra)

.

Later that afternoon, while Mark is escorting her away from the burning remains of her beautiful city, Lexa can only think of Cassandra and the look in her eyes, before she disappeared from her life.

(The look that seemed so strangely familiar—the look that spoke of knives and betrayal, of blood and sand—

The look that spoke of  _weakness_ )

She knows that she didn’t make it.

*

(Oh, the gods are so cruel—they live forever—

and Lexa would give anything just to have one more second with her)

*

**England [793 AD]**

Lexa crosses paths with her in England, where she is a Viking warrior and her ruin is called Cynthia. 

England is a harsh and cruel place, chilly to the bone and foggy in the mornings. It rains for most of the days and the waters are rough and cruel around the country. It’s not a friendly territory and it is almost as if the land knows that they are not from here, that they are foreigners coming to raid the land.

Lexa doesn’t particularly care much. She just wants blood in her hands, blood in her axe, blood raining down on the people. She lives for the cries of agony and pain; she lives for death.

Her tribe heads for Lindisfarne. The Norsemen have been talking about raiding England often now but this is their first attack and Lexa is in the front, alongside her friend Rysia. Rysia, who knows how to fashion the sharpest blades in the armory and who also the sharpest tongue in the cavalry.

“I bet my sword that you’re going to kill less than me,” says Rysia in Old Norse, as their longship sails straight towards land.

Lexa scowls. “Nonsense,” she says, “I have trained longer than you.”

“But you don’t have my skill,” Rysia says, whipping her long dark hair over one shoulder. She is undeniably pretty and many men have pursued her. There are times where Lexa has let her eyes stray as well.

“Your skill is rusty; too much passion, not enough thought,” Lexa is quick to reply.

Rysia smiles as she turns back to the sea. They are standing on deck, while the rest of the tribe prepare weapons and sharpen their blades. Most of them are men; there are women but only few. They haven’t worn their weapons yet; it is too hard to move as quickly when Lexa wears them. Her wolf-shaped helmet is tucked under her elbow while her wolf skin is wrapped comfortingly around her shoulders. Her axe is strapped to her waist, ready to be thrown at the slightest provocation.

“It is nearing dark,” Lexa observes quietly.

Rysia snorts. “There is no need to state the obvious, Lexa.”

Lexa scowls again. She does that a lot with Rysia. “I could cut you in minutes so hold your tongue.”

“Ah, you need to save that fire for later,” Rysia murmurs but she doesn’t add anything else. Instead, she turns to the sea and pulls out her blade, looking at in mute concentration.

Lexa goes over to the edge, the slow rocking of the longship comforting her inner thoughts. She places her elbows on the wood and thinks of the bloodshed that will happen soon.

. 

The longship lands on Lindisfarne by the break of dawn. Lexa’s feet moves restlessly against the ground, agitated at the thought of having to wait for her tribe to assemble in order to attack. She’s been trained for this most of her life and she doesn’t intend to wait for another second.

The island looks deserted from what Lexa has seen across the sea. The ground is sloping, filled with the green of the grass and short trees dotted across the horizon. The smell of the ocean is overpowering, even after Lexa walks a short distance away from the shore. It is cold as well, chilling Lexa to the bone. She pulls her wolf skin around her tighter.

Rysia appears next to her, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You should not stray,” she says, her tone urgent. “We have a thorough plan—it is not wise to forsake it.”

“I am not abandoning the plan,” Lexa says, squinting at the bright orange color of the sky.

Rysia straps in her lion-shaped helmet and pulls out her spear. She stands tall and proud, beautiful even and Lexa rolls her eyes as she, too, prepares for battle.

Rysia’s grin is predatory when she turns to look at her. “Let us begin,” she says and Lexa nods, follows suit as the tribe spreads all around, ready to play out the plan carefully thought through.

.

Everything is on fire when Lexa sees  _her_.

The Vikings have burned down the monastery of Lindisfarne, dragging the monks out with the front of their robes and brutally slitting their throats. The men are laughing as they loot the valuables hidden inside the church and the blood of the innocent run through the grass while Rysia and Lexa look for survivors hidden inside. They don’t mean to let anybody live through this day.

They circle the burning building, watching as the flames rise higher and higher. Lexa is hit with the warmth and the smell. She thinks that she’s never going to get enough of it—it smells strongly of victory.

They have won this battle. The rest will follow suit.

“For Odin,” Rysia whispers when she decides that nobody is going to survive this morning. She stops and stares at the fire, the bright illumination shedding an orange glow on her face.

Lexa steps next to her, watching as well. There’s an itch at the back of her head and she feels as if there should be something  _tragic_ about the fire.  _It is tragic_ , she tells herself,  _for them but not for us_.

She’s almost finish stowing away her bloody axe when she spots a flash of gold near the horizon. She turns around swiftly, her hand immediately going to the blade hidden in her boot as she watches a young girl heading away from the wreckage, her stride clumsy and her steps heavy.

Rysia follows her gaze and the grin is back in place. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Lexa manages to say “Do you have to ask?” before she’s sprinting towards the girl. She’s far faster than her target and she’s on to her even before they can reach the crest of a hill. She tightens her hold on her blade just as she leaps forward, crashing into the girl with a loud  _thud_  that takes the breath away from her lungs. There is a dull pain at first but it fades quickly. She rolls the blonde around, so that Lexa has her arms pinned on top of her head with the knife pressed closely to her throat.

Once Lexa gets a good look at her, she nearly drops the blade.

The girl says something in English but Lexa isn’t listening.

She rolls away before she can do anything stupid, like stay frozen on top of a trembling girl. Her heart is pounding loudly inside her chest and for a moment, she can’t breathe. Suddenly, the knife seems foreign in her hand and the smell of burning flesh makes her want to vomit. She presses her hand against her mouth and closes her eyes, shaking so hard that the blade trembles in her palm.

(In her mind’s eye, she sees an entire city burning with the taste of knives against her lips)

“Do I know you?” she demands of the girl. Her tone is harsh in Old Norse and the girl shakes her head.

Lexa racks her head and tries again, “Lexa. My name is Lexa.”

The girl seems to understand because she says, “Cynthia” in return. There is a flash of emotion in her eyes, one that Lexa identifies as recognition.

(The name seems to bring back memories—memories of the sun rising from the horizon, of the cool breeze blowing through the mountainside, copper against her lips)

Cynthia’s eyes are blue. Blue as the sea before a storm. There’s something about them—something that seems centuries old.

“Lexa,” Cynthia says, her voice soft and cracking around the edges. The name sounds foreign against her tongue.

(When Lexa closes her eyes, she sees burning buildings, a bloody knife lying in the sand, the figure of a golden-haired girl turning away from her)

She’s not sure if it’s a premonition or a memory.

“Have we met before?” she demands but her voice is empty and her body suddenly feels drained.         

Cynthia shakes her head; she doesn’t understand. She is trembling, pressing her hands against the hard clumps of the grass underneath her.

Lexa forces herself to stand. She picks up a blade, catching sight of the sheer terror in Cynthia’s eyes. She can hear people screaming behind her, begging for life and her tribe laughing in all of their bloody glory but the scene seems muted, even though it’s only a short distance behind. The golden-haired girl slowly backs up, her palms digging into the ground. Soot and ash have covered most of her face and there’s a gash near her neck. Her wide, terrified eyes are brimming with unshed tears.

Something inside Lexa screams and snaps.

The girl says something in English but Lexa doesn’t understand. The axe against her thigh suddenly seems very heavy and the blade seems too foreign in her palm. She takes a deep, shuddery breath and crouches in front of Cynthia, peering close into the depths of her blue eyes.

(She  _knows_  her—some part of her body, her soul, her mind  _recognizes_  her but she doesn’t know why. The pieces haven’t fallen in place yet)

“Cynthia,” she says, the foreign name light against her rough accent.

Cynthia looks at her, wide-eyed before dropping her gaze to the blade in Lexa’s hand.

Against her better judgment, against what she has been taught to do, Lexa drops it. It lands on the ground between them and it’s like a death sentence—because a Viking never drops her weapon.

“Go,” she demands, her voice steely. The word is in English—it’s one of the few things Lexa has learned while scouting the country—and Cynthia recoils. “Go. Run for your life.”

It takes a few seconds for the message to register but once it does, the golden-haired girl scrambles to her feet, the edges of her dress crackling with the flames as she runs. She runs as if she’s being chased by a pack of wolves, which in a way, she is.

( _I know her_ , Lexa thinks, picking up the blade again)

She watches as Cynthia reaches the top of the hill, where civilization waits. She thinks that it might be a trick of the eye because as she watches from where she’s crouched on the ground, she swears that she can see another version of Cynthia, this time wearing a white dress that reaches her knees with a crown of flowers topped on her head. The surroundings change as well and she's no longer in Lindisfarne, where there are people screaming behind her—no, instead she's in a mountainside, where there are low trees and colorful flowers spattered around and Cynthia ( _that's not her name_ ) is looking at her with the most pained look in her eyes. 

 " _We will see each other again_ ," she says and to Lexa's surprise, she understands her perfectly. 

.

Rysia later finds her in the same position, holding the blade of the knife so tightly that she'll need plenty of stitches later on. The dark-haired girl kneels next to her, her lion-shaped helmet shadowing her eyes as she gently coaxes the weapon from Lexa's hand. 

"You let her go," the Viking says. She does not sound angry but merely curious. 

Lexa's voice is tight when she whispers, "I knew her." 

Rysia tilts her head to the side. There is blood spattered across her face, her chest armor and the weapon she has in her hand. She looks like a true Viking. 

And Lexa feels weak. 

"She will warn the others," Rysia mutters. 

"Let her," Lexa says in return, wiping the blood from her hand and barely wincing when she feels the gash. "They will not win." 

There is silence. Rysia doesn't say anything else, just turns to the direction of the rising sun, her shoulders tense. Lexa twists around as well, watching as the flames rise higher and higher, reaching the skies in the way humans never can. 

.

After the battle, they give Rysia a new title—Rysia The Ravenous and they pass by Lexa when she turns slightly because even though she has not been granted a title she feels as if she should be called Lexa the Weak. 

*

(Lexa dies a few years later, a spear to the chest. She dies with a name on her lips and the image of a golden-haired girl smiling in her memory and then there is nothing left for her—

  —except for the  _waiting_ )

*

**Scotland [1297]**

Lexa comes across her again in Stirling, Scotland. They are both pretending to be something they're not and maybe that's why Lexa falls a bit harder this time. Her name is Catherine Marin but she calls herself Wallace Stewart.

The Scots are nothing but determined. They've had many revolts, rebellions and acts of defiance against the English crown. They scream for independence, shed their blood on their land, demanding the English to leave. It's almost a wonder that they haven't grown tired of fighting; Lexa surely has. She grows tired of wiping the blood from her sword and from taking, burning, corrupting,  _destroying_. She grows tired of the cries of agony and the whispers of mercy—she grows tired of war, of death. 

But her battle is not over. 

It had been hard to get into her position as a female knight. Men scorn her—they taunt her, saying that she has no right—no place—to fight in a king’s war. Her usual response is to clench her jaw and look away but there are other times where she allows herself to hit them in the face. While others despise her presence and some let their eyes stray, there are still men who praise her bravery, who admire her ferocity and her skill.

She works hard, she follows orders, and she trains day and night—like any man would.

She is not soft, like what they say about women. She is steel, her edges are rough and she does not easily let others slip beneath her skin. She is not weak—she cannot afford to be weak.

But then she meets Catherine and everything falls apart.

The English have underestimated the power of the Scots. They grow haughty and arrogant, sending lesser men out into the field, believing that the enemy is disorganized—nothing more than a bunch of peasants under knight’s armor. Hubris is their downfall but Lexa’s comes with the name of Catherine. 

They plan to cross Stirling Bridge and attack the Scots unnoticed. There have been many debates about whether or not somebody should outflank the enemy but it is overruled, leading to a decision for a direct attack. It’s sloppy and completely disorganized but Lexa is a woman and she bites her tongue.

On the morning of the attack, Lexa wears her armor and unsheathes her short sword. She has not been given the authority to ride on a horse so she follows after her cavalry, her gear clinking loudly as they march towards the enemy. She can taste the apprehension, the fear and the doubt in the air. She can see it in the way the knights hold onto their swords and the way some are mumbling soft prayers under their breaths. She can feel it in her chest, easily identifying the dread when it takes a hold of her heart.

 _Mercy_ , she thinks when the first of the men start to cross the bridge.

It is entirely too small for a cavalry to pass through. Only two horses can pass at the same time. They’re surrounded by the green of the Scottish land and the river has a slow current, reflecting the gleam of the knight’s armor. There is silence all around, except for the whistle of nature and the heavy marching footsteps. It is Lexa’s turn to cross the bridge and her shoulders jostle with her comrades. She looks around, squinting against her helm. Her fingers tighten on the handle of her sword. There is something wrong—something is about to happen and—

And that’s when she hears the Scots, screaming for their blood.

The English are too slow to react and most of them have already dropped their swords in shock. Lexa keeps hers in her hand as she raises her face to look at the hill across the bridge, where an army of about 9, 000 appeared. There is no more disorder, no disorganization on the Scots’ part and Lexa’s pulse flutters when she sees them charging across the land, holding an assorted amount of weapons such as spears, bows, arrows, swords—

The rest is a blur.

All she knows is that there’s blood everywhere. Blood mixed with agony, pain and death. She has jumped over the bridge, falling onto the water and scraping her armor. She is not hurt, the fall is not terrible but the same can’t be said for the others, who fall and crack their necks. She does not rise to help them—she has a battle to win and there must be no distractions. Whirling around and hurrying to the enemy, she keeps her hold on her sword, where the blade sings clean. It won’t stay like that for long.

She uses her training—she parries, she stabs, she blocks. The Scots don’t know that she’s a woman and they are equal with her skills but she is slightly better. She suffers a hit to the arm and a jab at her stomach but her armor is strong and she fights her way through. She doesn’t have the luxury to look around but she knows that the English is being overpowered and that she is fighting a losing battle. 

She fully expects to lose this battle; she does not expect to lose her heart.

She is caught by surprise when a knight charges straight towards her, tackling her to the ground with the sword pressed tightly against her neck. Lexa twists them around before the damage can be done and now, she’s pinned the enemy underneath her. She raises her sword and slams the butt of it against the helm. The helm opens and Lexa freezes when she sees blue eyes.

(Blue eyes and fire rising towards the skies—a knife in her hand, blinding her with pain and agony)

They are both tangled in the water, the current slowly pushing through the dead, mangled bodies of her men but Lexa feels as if she is suddenly a thousand miles away from this battle , a thousand miles ripped from her timeline, a thousand miles away from her reality. Because in a crazy sense, it feels like déjà vu.

“You’re a woman,” she says, her voice rough.

The woman disguised as a knight spits at her. Lexa recoils but doesn’t take her weight off.

“I’m better than a man,” the blue-eyed one says. She has a very distinct Scottish accent. There is blood against her forehead but she ignores it completely.

Lexa’s fingers slacken around the handle of her sword and her other hand hovers near the woman’s neck.

“I’m not a man,” Lexa whispers, relishing the surprise in the woman’s eyes. She leans close, even though her helm is closed and the enemy can’t see her. “I’m the same as you.”

She raises her sword again and the woman’s eyes flutter close. But Lexa—for some reason that is completely beyond her—doesn’t kill her. Instead, she hits her with the butt of her sword again, knocking her out completely and rolls sideways. The battle is still happening but everything seems to be in slow motion. There is plenty of blood on the ground and in the water, mingling in with nature and there are bodies everywhere, arms cut off, disemboweled limbs, just thrown aside and left for the animals.

Lexa stands up. Nobody is paying her attention. They are too absorbed in their own battles. She looks back at the woman, unconscious in a pool of blood and water. She doesn’t have the vigil of the Scots but she does have their color against the front of her chest armor.

Lexa doesn’t know her but she does know one thing—she cannot bear to let her die. Damn England. Damn Scotland. She is a woman and women are supposed to help other women. She drops her sword (she can feel the finality of the splash when she turns away) and grabs the woman’s shoulders. It’s a tedious effort, pulling her away from the worst of the battle and Lexa has to dodge hostile Scots and Englishmen running at each other. Somehow, during the duration of the fight, the Scots have acquired bows and are currently in the process of shooting knights with the English vigil down. Lexa rips hers off and continues dragging the woman towards the underside of the bridge. It’s not the best hiding spot but it will have to do.

She props the woman up against the wall, keeping her out of the water. It’s shallow but she’s unconscious. It wouldn’t do any good if she drowned in her sleep. Lexa itches to take off the helm but she doesn’t. Her curiosity can wait.

She grabs the woman’s sword, which she hasn’t unsheathed yet and stalks away to fight a losing battle.

.

She barely survives.

Two hours later, the battle ends. The Scots stand tall and proud, kicking at the dead carcasses of the enemy, laughing and hooting. The blood of the Englishmen stains their clothes and their teeth gleams when they smile. They are deliriously drunk in their glory and if Lexa hadn’t been injured, she would’ve jumped and slashed them to the ground. She might not care about the outcome of this war but she does care about the lives of her people—about the lives the king has so carelessly thrown away, about the men she fought and trained with, about the people she thought of as  _comrades_.

She’s suffering from a leg injury and her ribs are suddenly too sensitive. She has cuts and bruises all over and somebody had managed to get a good slash against her arm. She’s lying face down against the mud and she’s trying hard not to move, especially since she knows that her life is on the line. She closes her eyes, steadies her breathing and tries to wait the Scots out.

It’s nightfall when she wakes up. It’s a surprise that she hasn’t died in her sleep yet. Everything about her body hurts and she feels as if she’s lost too much blood. She wishes she had died sooner. At least then it’d be quick. She tries to move her leg or her fingers but everything hurts too much. The cold seeps into her bones, makes her chest squeeze on itself when she rolls onto her back. The sky is dark but the moon is bright. The silence makes her think of home but her heart falls when she remembers that her home burned down and that she’s going to die in a few minutes now.

Then she hears rustling, footsteps scraping against the grass and she braces herself, thinking that it’s the enemy—that the Scots have come to finish what they have started.

“You’re alive,” a voice colored with the Scottish accent says and Lexa props herself up on her elbows, even though her armor is heavy and her entire body is aching.

She’s about to say something harsh or rude but the words die in her throat when she realizes that the one talking to her isn’t a man—it’s the woman she carried off to safety; the woman with the blue eyes.

“You,” Lexa whispers, wincing as she tries to stand.

The woman waves her down. “Don’t,” she says. It’s hard to understand her, especially with that kind of accent. Lexa opens her mouth to protest but pain shoots through her chest and her leg suddenly feels as if it’s been sliced in half.

The woman lurches forward hesitantly. Lexa squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. The woman steps back.

“You let me live,” the woman says, her voice soft.

“Yes,” Lexa agrees.

“We are enemies, sworn by oath to fight for our country.” The woman’s hands twitch at her sides and Lexa is hit with an image of the same woman sitting on the sand with her wrists bound together by restraints. She doesn’t know where the image comes from but sadness seems to wash over her body like an ocean wave.

“Yes,” Lexa drags the word out slowly.

The woman squares her shoulders. “Why?”

Lexa tries to find the right answer but it seems too complicated. Besides, she can’t think much—especially with the injuries she has sustained.

She goes for, “You remind me of someone.” She pauses, not missing the look of disappointment in the woman’s blue eyes. “You—I feel like I  _recognize_  you. Maybe we’ve met before.”

The woman stops moving, looking at her cautiously. She’s still wearing her helm and there is still blood spattered against her armor and she looks like a warrior, a knight graced by the king himself. But then Lexa locks eyes with hers and she can see the vulnerability and genuine uncertainty in the blue hue.

“What is your name?” the woman asks.

Lexa tilts her head to the side. “Lexa,” she answers. She pulls at her helmet and takes it off. It’s a tedious process but she manages to pull through. What is left of her curly mane falls against her shoulders. Her body relaxes as she turns to look at the woman again.

“You weren’t lying,” the woman says, wide-eyed. Her voice has somehow tightened.

“Now take yours off.”

The woman hesitates before reaching up and unclasping her helmet. She pulls it off and her golden hair spills out, curling near the nape of her neck. She’s cut her hair shorter than Lexa has and at first glance, if you don’t focus on her face, then it’ll seem like she  _is_  a man. The armor has hidden her slim figure and she has taken great deals to walk and stand like a man, almost to the point that it must be very uneasy to shed off that skin.

“Your name,” Lexa asks politely, holding her side as she adjusts her position. Her entire body nearly cripples with pain.

“Catherine,” the golden-haired woman says.

“Are you an appointed knight, Catherine?”

Catherine shakes her head. “I stole my friend’s armor, the night he was supposed to leave for his cavalry. He has condition, which leaves him vulnerable to weakness and pain. They call it a weak heart. I couldn’t bear to let him die, especially in a time like this.” She pauses, disbelief masking her features once she realizes just how much she has revealed.

Lexa smiles. “What is his name?”

“Wallace,” Catherine whispers, almost like a prayer.

“Does your cavalry know?” Lexa asks; “that you’re a woman?”

Catherine shrugs. “I have taken great deals not to be discovered.”

“Except you have been discovered,” Lexa points out.

“At least it’s not by a man.” Catherine’s lips twists bitterly.

Lexa nods in appreciation. She’s about to say something else but then her vision suddenly swims and she lurches forward, her head becoming dizzyingly slow. She clutches at the ground, feeling as if she’s about to throw up any second now and God, she’s lost so much blood—there’s no way she’s going to survive. She can feel Death’s clutches at her throat, choking her and cutting off her airway.

The last thing she sees before she loses consciousness is Catherine reaching out for her, lips forming her name.

(And she wants to  _know_ —God, she wants to know the reason why she seems so awfully familiar)

.

She wakes up a few days later, stripped of her armor and wearing peasant clothes. There is a bandage wrapped around her head, her leg and her chest. She feels a lot better now, even though every part of her body still screams and aches. Twisting to the side, she realizes that she’s somehow ended up in a small cottage, with the smell of dew in the air. She closes her eyes, breathes through her nose and then sits up.

“You shouldn’t be moving at all,” somebody says.

Lexa twists her head around, her hand immediately going for the imaginary sword still strapped to her waist. Her hand falls awkwardly when she realizes that it’s not there.

Catherine is somewhere around the room but Lexa still isn’t seeing her. She grips the fabric of her rags tightly, fingers clutching at her side as she moves to stand. Her vision swims and she would’ve nearly fallen if it wasn’t for Catherine reaching out and steadying her.

“I told you,” the woman says, gruffly.

Lexa pushes her off and holds on to a nearby pillar. She winces when she feels the pain ripping through her skin. When she looks at her hand, her fingers are red.

There’s a flash of gold at the corner of her eye and Lexa raises her head. Catherine is looking at her, wearing a dress made of poor material and her hair curls at the nape of her neck. Her blue eyes are fiery with irritation.

“You’ve ruined your stitches,” she mutters.

“I can see that,” Lexa deadpans.

“You’d be dead without me,” Catherine says tightly, locking eyes with Lexa before turning away to look for more bandages.

“And you’d be dead without  _me_ ,” Lexa retorts. She slides back into the bed full of fur, running her fingers through the fabric as she watches Catherine moving around the room. “Where are we, if I may ask?”

“In a cottage, hidden near the river and the woods,” Catherine answers as she comes back with rags that look unfit for bandages. Lexa doesn’t flinch away, however. Instead, she bites her tongue and gently lifts her shirt off, her voice dying in her throat when she sees the blood soaked bandage.

Catherine makes a  _tsk_  sound. “You suffered gravely,” she says, flicking her eyes over to Lexa, who is silently watching her. “You should be dead.”

“Are you a healer?” Lexa asks.

“I’ve had training.” Catherine reaches forward and takes the old bandage off. Lexa winces—the pain is short lived but it stuns her still. She blacks out for a moment and when she comes back, Catherine is already pulling her shirt down and wiping the blood off her hands with a wet towel.

Lexa licks her dry lips. “Thank you,” she says. She doesn’t say those words often so it’s foreign against her tongue.

Catherine meets her gaze. Her hands, for once, are not fidgeting and she looks at Lexa like she’s known her forever. And maybe they have. Maybe they don’t. Lexa doesn’t know.

(She does know that she falls—she falls for the golden-haired girl with eyes as clear as the sea and she falls  _hard_ )

.

She doesn’t do anything about it.

She blames it on her injuries, on the war, on herself for being such a coward. She blames it on her fear of rejection, on wanting something so badly that she could lose everything because of it—she blames it on the nights spent with nothing for company except for Catherine’s steady breathing in the next bed, on waking up to the smell of hazelnut soup cooking in the fire, on letting her eyes stray towards the only bright thing in the room, especially when she’s incarcerated and she can’t move a muscle.

She doesn’t blame Catherine though. She never blames her.

The thing about Catherine is that she’s fiery and beautiful and headstrong and charming when she needs to be. They’ve spent a few weeks together, slowly healing. Catherine suffered a major head trauma during the battle (which Lexa feels guilty for) and twisted an arm during the time she dragged Lexa into safety. So, now they’re healing. And in the process of healing, they get to know each other.

Catherine has a friend named Wallace Stewart. They’ve been close since birth and their parents had been planning on marrying them. Catherine didn’t love Wallace that way, however and had let him down gently. In a hasty decision, Wallace decided to join the army. A week before he was supposed to leave, he collapsed due to pain in his chest area.  _Weak heart_ , they said.

Catherine picked up his armor and went in his place instead.

 “I don’t know if that’s brave or foolish,” Lexa remarks when she hears the story. They’re sitting around the table, with their soup growing cold in front of them.

Catherine idly picks at her dress. “It seemed brave at the time,” she answers, not looking at her, “but now, it does seem foolish.”

Lexa tilts her head to the side, lips twisting into a bitter smile. Sometimes, she has visions of Catherine in another outfit; wearing a shawl over her face, a crown of flowers topped on her head, streaks of ash against her cheeks—she doesn’t know where these images come from but her chest always tightens when she sees them.

“Foolishness and bravery are often the same thing, Catherine.” She doesn’t know why she has the need to comfort the other woman, especially since they are sworn enemies under the crown of their kings but there’s simply something about Catherine—a rare aura that seems to speak centuries of wisdom and passion. She seems young and timeless, reckless but calculating, beautiful but broken.

Catherine ducks her head to hide a smile. Then, without breaching the topic, she reaches out and pushes the bowl of soup towards Lexa.

“Finish it,” she says and Lexa looks at her, the bitter smile still in place.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Catherine just nods.

.

Lexa decides to pick up her sword again.

It’s hidden alongside her armor under the bed, where Catherine has kept it. (She found it abandoned underneath the Stirling bridge and picked it up) Lexa occasionally lets it out, cleaning it with a rag and trying to polish the steel. She doesn’t know where Catherine keeps hers but she does know that the woman does the same thing, weighing her weapon with her palm and wiping the dust away so that it won’t turn into a memory.

The two of them are awfully similar and it terrifies Lexa. She tries not to let it get to her but it does.

She picks up the sword at the break of dawn, dragging it behind her as she limps out of the cottage. The sun still hasn’t risen yet but the sky has turned pinkish when she manages to reach the riverside. The sword is heavy in her hand but it’s not foreign—in fact, it feels like an extension of her arm, a piece of her soul that she’s lost and has now found.

She tightens her grip on the handle and swings it around. She’s not used to the feeling yet, especially after weeks of being in pain. She twists her body to the side, trying to parry an invisible foe but her side flares up and she nearly drops her weapon. Wincing, she runs her fingers through her hair and tries again.

“Lexa!” Catherine’s voice, furious.

Lexa drops her sword, her fingers numb with lack of practice. Her hand clutches at her stitches and she looks to see if she’s bleeding. She’s not.

When she raises her eyes, she sees Catherine approaching her in a quick pace. With the murderous look on her face, it’s not a surprise that Lexa takes a few steps back.

“You could’ve hurt yourself, you fool,” Catherine snaps, snatching the sword from the ground and swinging it around expertly.

Lexa raises her eyebrows. “It’s nice to see that you’ve healed pretty quickly.”

“Well, I’m not the one with an injury to the side, a bruised arm and a barely fixed leg,” Catherine retorts. Her blue eyes, always so bright and charming, are full of apprehension and annoyance. She raises the sword and jabs it at Lexa, who is far away enough to not be hurt by accident. “Don’t you want to be healed? Don’t you want to go back to fighting this war? Unlike you, I’m not an appointed knight. I don’t have an oath to stand by.”

Lexa frowns. She doesn’t like talking about her choices, about war and death, about the thousands of lives sacrificed in order for a king to get what he wants. She supposes that Catherine has every right to ask, especially since she told her of the story about Wallace but that doesn’t mean she has to talk about it.

“Being a knight is a harsh task,” Lexa says, running her fingers through her curls. She turns towards the rising sun, watching the pink fading away into an orange glow. “No matter what you believe in, you just have to follow your orders. They don’t look at you like you’re human anymore—they look at you like you’re chess pieces, ready to be pushed around, ready to be used as a weapon.”

Catherine tilts her head to the side, stabbing the ground with her sword. “Then why be a knight in the first place?”

Lexa doesn’t look at her when she says, “I had nothing to live for. Might as well die in the process of doing something good in the name of a king I hated.”

“That’s terrible and wrong!” Catherine exclaims, her eyes lighting up with emotion.

Lexa forces herself to look at her.

(And when she does, she sees her in a dry land, shoulders shaking with a laughter that marks both of their ruins; she sees her in a mountainside, tears streaming down her cheeks with whispers of promises dying against her lips; she sees her lying against the ground, fire and ash everywhere, burning whatever is left of the world)

But Lexa does not remember.

“It is war,” she answers, nodding slightly.          

“It is your life,” Catherine says, furious. She shoves the sword at Lexa, who barely manages to hold on to it. Her fingers clutch at the handle and she winces when she accidentally moves too much. “You are not a pawn—you are human, mortal—and you must choose your own path.”

Lexa looks at her quietly. The fire in her eyes has not died down. “We are enemies, Catherine,” she murmurs, her voice soft. “Why on earth are you giving me advice?”

Catherine tilts her chin up, assessing her carefully. “I made a choice when I dragged you out of that river,” she answers, her voice firm. “And I’m choosing to stand by it.”

They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, not moving—just memorizing each other, filling the silence with their steady breathing.

(Lexa feels as if eternity shouldn’t be  _this_  short-lived)

She doesn’t let go of the sword.

.

She gathers her armor, picks up her sword, places a note on the table and leaves Catherine in the middle of the night, slipping through the door like a ghost meant to be forgotten. “I hope we meet again,” she whispers right before she leaves but she knows that it’s a lie. She walks with hurried footsteps, the cold wind sharp against her cheeks and the moon following her wherever she goes. She dwells into the forest, keeps going forward, never stopping, never halting, never ceasing. She doesn’t want to think about what she has left behind—what she has rejected for selfish reasons.

(Her mouth tastes of betrayal and her eyes sting like fire has burned them—she doesn’t want to know why she feels the way she does whenever she’s around Catherine)

When she’s far enough to find civilization, she allows herself to collapse against the ground. The chilly air seems to rip off the breath from her lungs. Her entire body aches but the pain is nothing compared to the agony in her chest. She has fallen for Catherine and in the process, has broken the pieces that have made her whole.

She needed to leave. Everything about the golden-haired woman screams of  _danger._

(Lexa doesn’t allow herself to admit that Catherine also screams of desire, of lust, of understanding, of wisdom—she screams of eons full of pain and betrayal, choices made on the wrong foot, ashes and fire—and it hurts Lexa but she doesn’t know why; all she knows is that Catherine screams of danger and of war and of death)

Lexa wears her armor again—choosing to be the one thing that she hates. She picks up her sword and fights for the side that she no longer believes in.

She might’ve lost the battle at the Stirling Bridge but nothing hurts more than knowing that she has also lost her heart to the enemy.

*

(Later on, she has to confess that leaving Catherine was one of the biggest mistakes she has made

but she left knowing that they were better off separated

and she doesn’t know why

but that seems to be the most important thing)

*

**North Carolina [1760]**

And oh, Lexa sees her again in America, where it’s not yet called the Land of Freedom. Her name is Clara and she is so much better in this life than the rest.  

America is hardly organized at this moment. There are plenty of riots and protests, anti-slavery northerners screaming to free the Blacks from the treachery of being forced to do labor. It’s nothing pretty and Lexa is glad of her position as the daughter of a prominent politician. She is nineteen years old, walking through the streets while the people of color are pushed to the ground and forced to do manual work, their rights and their humanity ripped from the cages of their beating hearts. Her father has drilled into her head that their family is  _better_ than the Blacks, mainly because they are pure and civilized and oh, Lexa believes him.

Until she meets Clara Smith.

It’s nighttime when Lexa sneaks out of her house in the middle of the night. Her brother, Gavin, is waiting for her on the steps of the porch as she seeks to meet him. He is a few years older than she is but his beard is thick and he is already looking forward in joining the military, the highest honor a man could ever have.

“Alexa,” he says, when Lexa throws a shawl over her face, “You have no skill in slipping out of a house unnoticed.”

“Please shut your mouth, Gavin,” she tells him as they proceed to walk down the street.

“Father will kill me if he knew I had purposefully brought you out for a bit of fun, little sister,” Gavin mockingly teases and Lexa rolls her eyes, hating the fact that men look down on women so much.

“I can handle myself,” she says.

“I know you can.” Gavin pats her shoulder. “You are strong, after all.”

She gives him a small smile before they turn a corner and head into the town plaza. A play is currently being performed and there are plenty of people all around, craning their heads to look at the stage. The play is of romance, two people who find each other amongst war and loss. It’s a classic and people love it. Gavin moves to the very back and looks over at Lexa, who wipes her brow with a handkerchief.

“Are you okay, little sister?” he asks pleasantly.

“I’m fine,” Lexa answers stiffly.

“Ah, do you wish to go home now?”

She gives him a look so severe that he backs away. Truthfully, she is a bit thirsty so she sighs and mutters something about getting a drink. He opens his mouth to protest but she waves him down, already moving to the sides of the plaza, where there are hopefully a few vendors selling some drinks. She wanders around aimlessly until her feet ache. She realizes that she’s not going to get a sip of water here, not for a while anyway.

She’s about to head back to Gavin when she hears voices around the corner of the alleyways. Her curiosity perks up when a voice yells,  _“No, you fool!_ ” There are some scuffling and rapid footsteps and the sounds of shackles moving. More voices, more harsh whispers.

Truth be told, it is a foolish thing to head for the darkness but then the play is still going on and her brother Gavin is unlikely to budge from his place. Lexa tightens her shawl and dives into the alleyway, her feet slipping on the wet pavement. She follows the voices closely, realizing that it’s more than just two people. She hikes up the hem of her dress and hurries, knowing that if she falters for one second then she’ll lose her lead. She can feel her chest aching under her bodice as she turns around the corner.

She catches a glimpse of golden hair and nearly stumbles.

But the people who are running away slip off into the back of a building, where it leads to the James River. Lexa hesitates for a second, looking back to the town plaza. Gavin will surely know that something is wrong but she’s already come here and she doesn’t like to backtrack.

So she pushes on, follows the voices, tries to keep her instinct on hold.

The trail leads to the Great Dismal Swamp and after stumbling through tall fields of grasses, Lexa is starting to think that she might have walked into the wrong place. People have often talked about how this location is barely survivable for humans, since it has harsh conditions and unknown animals lurking around the area. Lexa’s teeth chatter as she stops at the edge of the swamp, trying to decide whether or not to go in. It’s fully dark out now but the people she’s been following have lamps with them, illuminating their path. They’re already fading away.

Lexa decides to head back to town, knowing full well that Gavin is already looking for her. She twists around and is about to start moving when she hears a shout from the grass and heavy footsteps thundering against the ground.

“Get her!” somebody yells and before Lexa can start running, a broad body is already pinning her to the ground, making her breath catch in her throat. She falls on the grass, where she gets a mouthful of plants, and tries to scramble away but there are cuts and bruises against her arms and her attacker has his hand around her ankle.

“Get the hell off me!” she demands and the hand slackens slightly, which opens a room for her to scramble up to her feet. Her entire body is aching and her chest is heaving underneath her bodice. Her shawl has somehow disappeared and there’s dirt against her cheek.

The attacker stands on his feet. From the way he’s limping, it’s clear that he’s a slave and that he’s been hurt badly. He lunges for her but then a flash of gold appears and suddenly, Lexa forgets to breathe.

“Will,  _don’t_!” a female voice demands and the slave stops. A girl with blonde hair is standing in front of him, her hands held up to keep him from attacking Lexa again.

“She’s going to tell on us,” the slave insists, keeping his eyes locked on Lexa. He’s wearing a torn shirt and there are bloody slashes against his chest. Even though it’s dark out, Lexa can see the pain in his eyes.

“She won’t,” the blonde girl says, keeping one hand raised. “Not unless I convince her not to.”

Lexa is still standing in the same spot, when the blonde girl twists around. Their eyes meet and Lexa feels as if a knife has been pushed against her gut, where it stays.

(And there is fire everywhere, inside her eyelids, her chest, and her heart—there is a fire and it  _burns_ )

(She  _knows_  her)

“Hello,” the blonde girl says, stepping forward and tilting her head to the side. Her eyes are blue.  She’s wearing a simple dress, meant for the poorest of the poor and there is dirt against the fabric and the hem has been torn at the edges. And yet, she walks with certain elegance and grace.

“Who are you?” Lexa demands harshly.

“There’s no need to be rude,” the blonde girl says stiffly. She waves at the slave behind her. “My name is Clara Smith and this is my friend, William.”

“You’re friends with a  _slave_?”

The man named William raises his shaking hands but Clara barks at him to stand down. He does and Lexa turns to the woman, slightly in awe and surprise.

“He’s a human being,” Clara says calmly, when Lexa raises her eyebrows, “I certainly do not underappreciate the value of human life.”

“But you are privileged,” Lexa argues, “You do not have his skin color; you are pure and civilized. They are nothing more than savages!”

William growls under his breath and Clara’s eyes darken. “I cannot hope for you to understand,” she says, taking another step forward. “What is your name?”

“Alexa,” Lexa answers, “My father is Dr. Thomas. He’s a very wealthy politician and he will not agree to what you are planning.”

“I told you!” William says to Clara harshly, “We are doomed if we let her live.”

“There will no such need for violence,” Clara states, turning back to Lexa.

“William? Clara?” A voice calls out from the bushes and a man steps out. He is well fit and his hair is messy, curling near his ears. A patch of freckles dot his cheeks. He is also wearing rags and his dark eyes widen when he sees Lexa.

Clara silences him with a look before he opens his mouth. “Benjamin,” she says coldly, “I’m here to talk to her, to convince her to leave us be. I don’t need your harsh actions at this moment.”

The man named Benjamin takes a step back. Clara looks back at Lexa.

“You cannot tell your father,” she insists, “or anybody else.”

“You’re hiding them,” Lexa says, her voice tight with disgust.

“I’m giving them a chance to live,” Clara corrects.

Lexa shakes her head. It’s wrong and it’s nothing but nonsense and it’s against everything that she’s been taught. The slaves have always been meant for the dirt and they always will be. They don’t deserve anything, especially not freedom. They are savages, uncivilized people who don’t know where they belong—

And Clara is pleading with her. “They are people and I will not look down on them.” Her blue eyes have lit up in a kind of passion that surely leaves behind forest fires. “If you do not wish to help them then help  _me_.”

(And oh Lord—she’s something alright, she’s something brave and new and  _beautiful_  and so goddamn familiar)

“I—”

“ALEXA!” somebody yells and Lexa whips around, her eyes widening at the sight of Gavin running towards her, his face wild and frantic. He spots the two slaves—William and Benjamin—before swiftly pulling out his firearm, a Wheelock pistol.

“Gavin, DON’T!” she screams as he stops at a short distance away.

Gavin points the gun at William first, who takes a step backward. Lexa barely has time to scream another choked “ _Gavin—_ ” before the sounds of a weapon being pulled fills the air. There is a loud, sharp bang and then William is falling against the ground in front of Lexa, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. He shakes and shudders before finally going still.

The next second is chaos. Clara lets out a strangled cry and Benjamin is grabbing at her arm, shouting at her to leave the body and to get to safety. Gavin looks horrified for a moment but the moment fades and he’s running after Lexa, screaming at her to move away. But Lexa is frozen, her eyes locked on the slave’s body. In death, he looks painfully young. Tortured, but young.

Gavin is at her side by the time she looks up at the fading figures of Benjamin and Clara. They are running straight towards the swamp, the mud pulling at their heels. It takes a few short seconds but by then, Clara’s golden curls are the only thing Lexa can see from her position.

“Are you okay? Did they do anything to hurt you?” Gavin demands.

(Lexa doesn’t tell him that watching Clara run away from her feels like a knife to the gut, a thousand fires lighting up inside her body, the sting of a broken arm and several heartbreaks molded into one)

“I’m fine,” she says instead.

It’s a lie.

*

(When Lexa closes her eyes, she sees  _her—_

—always turning away, anguish written all over her pretty features

and it sounds like a love story written by Homer

but really, it’s just a tragedy)

*

**New York City [1981]**

Fate brings them together in a small bar located in New York and Lexa falls for the broken version of her. Her name is Cecilia and she’s barely holding it together.

Lexa’s been a regular at the A.R.K. bar for a few months now. She has a friend named Anna there, who works as the bartender during night shifts. It’s a fairly populated area, since teenagers with fake ID’s take their weekend parties there, howling and drinking and being essentially young. But for most of the weekdays, it’s quiet and slow and it’s exactly what Lexa wants.

On Wednesday night, Lexa slides into her usual place, at the bar counter, where Anna is cleaning a few bottles from the shelves.

“Slow?” Lexa asks, tapping her finger against the table.

“Just the way you like it,” Anna mutters, twisting around to face her. She’s tall with wild bushy hair, high cheekbones and a look that could literally cut a man. Beautiful but dangerous as well.

“The usual, please,” Lexa orders and Anna gives her a lazy grin.

They talk about normal everyday things; work, girls, their other friends, their peaceful lives. Lexa can’t help but feel as if she’s missing something tonight. It’s like working without her favorite pen or trying to sleep without her favorite pillow. It’s definitely strange, especially since Lexa has been feeling off for the past few days.

Maybe it’s work. Maybe it’s her sleeping pattern. Who knows.

She drowns her third glass and Anna is talking about this asshole of a customer that came here earlier when they both hear a commotion outside. A man’s voice, dangerously loud and angry while a nearby girl shouts at him, voice tightly twisted. Lexa shares a look with Anna, whose eyes have darkened considerably.

“Boyfriend troubles,” she mutters.

“Just another day on the job,” Lexa says in return, before sliding out of her chair and jogging to the front door. Anna follows closely.

Something like this always happen in the course of being a bartender. Anna has had a hand in a few bar fights for the past few months—she’s always the one pulling two guys from each other or the one strong enough to take on a burly man twice her size. Lexa usually helps her along since she’s spent most of her childhood practicing karate. The two of them have always been a strong pairing. In both literal and metaphorical sense.

Lexa storms outside, fists tightly clenched and Anna bursts in next to her. They take a moment to look for the source of the commotion before Lexa’s eyes fall on three figures near an alleyway across the street. Two guys with a girl wedged in between. The boys are arguing loudly, voices full of anger and barely contained disdain. Lexa takes a step forward and so does Anna.

“Sure we want to do this tonight?” Anna asks lightly. It’s meant as a joke because she knows that Lexa never backs down from a fight.

“Hell yeah,” Lexa mutters before charging straight forward, as silent as ever. The element of surprise. Anna’s footsteps follow her across the street.

The first man, the aggressor, has long wavy dark hair, reaching his shoulders. He’s broad and well fit and he’s currently launching forward and balling his hands into fists. There is a barely contained rage in his eyes and he looks as if he could kill a man at this point. The second man, the one on defense, has curly hair, messy at the edges with freckles across his skin. He is taller and leaner but calmer as well. He talks with his hands held forward, a gesture for non-violence.

Lexa’s eyes fall on the girl between them and her heart jumps to her throat. She has blonde hair, tears in her wide, blue eyes and words spewing out of a frantic mouth. She has both of her hands against the two guys’ chests and it’s obvious that she’s failing, if the first man’s shaking figure is anything to go by.

“Hey!” Lexa shouts and it’s stupid really, because her element of surprise is gone and Anna is cursing behind her but it’s worth it, when the aggressor’s attention snaps towards her.

“What the hell do you want?” he demands, his voice harsher than she expects.    

“This is none of your business,” the second man mutters.

But Lexa isn’t looking at them; she’s looking at the blonde girl, who has tears streaming against her cheeks and who looks completely and utterly broken. She takes a deep, shaky breath and then turns to look at Lexa. Something flashes in her blue eyes and her mouth drops open slightly.

(Yes, there’s something achingly painful about her, like a sad movie you’ve watched once and can never bear to look at again)

“Well, you’re fighting in front of my bar and it’s my job to make sure that you don’t fuck shit up,” Anna is saying and Lexa’s attention turns back to her.

“Dude, let it  _go_ ,” the first man growls, stepping forward and getting into Anna’s personal space. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Frank,” the second man warns.

“Look, I just want to clear this whole thing up,” the guy named Frank says, gesturing wildly to the girl, “My girlfriend and I have a lot of things to discuss.”

Lexa looks at the girl again, whose mouth is trembling slightly. Her eyes have gone dark.

“I don’t think she wants to go with you,” Lexa says quietly.

Frank turns sharply. “What did you say?” he demands. He clenches his hands into fists again and he looks as if he’s about to hit her. Lexa takes a cautious step back, knowing the signs of a mad man. The second guy moves forward, placing his hand against Frank’s arm, keeping him from moving.

“Dude, you don’t hit chicks,” he says.

“Brody,” the girl calls. To Lexa’s surprise, her voice is firm. “We should go now.”

Anna clicks her tongue. “That’s what we were hoping for.”

But Frank isn’t listening. He twists his head to look at his girlfriend, who seems to have stood taller now. His pale, grey eyes have widened and Lexa doesn’t miss the way Brody’s jaw tenses.

“You’re going with him,” Frank says, his voice strangely calm.

“I’m leaving you,” the girlfriend states and she clenches her hands; Lexa can still see them shaking, however. “Ever since you got that job offer from the firm, you’ve gone completely crazy. You’re paranoid and stressed and you’re not the same guy I met, okay?”

Frank’s mouth twists into a bitter smile. “So, you’re just going to go with  _him_ ,” he says, jerking his head at Brody.

“He’s my best friend, Frank.”

“You’re screwing him.”

“Not  _cool_ ,” Brody growls and Lexa doesn’t know who throws the first punch but somehow, the two men are grabbing at each other blindly, fists colliding at any available flesh. The girlfriend tries to get in but Lexa jumps straight towards her, pushing her back.

“Let us handle this,” she says before she turns back to the brawl. Anna has already gotten Frank in a headlock in the matter of seconds that Lexa looked away and now they’re both struggling to throw the other off. Brody, however, is beyond pissed. His nose is bleeding and he has an ugly bruise against his eye. He lunges towards Frank and Anna but Lexa sweeps her feet at his legs and he stumbles, hitting the ground and adding more damage to his nose.  

“Get off me!” Frank yells angrily, clawing at Anna.

“Don’t make me snap your neck,” Anna growls.

Brody is struggling to get to his feet but Lexa calmly walks towards him, kicks his hands flat. He falls again, groaning loudly and the blonde girl steps forward, dropping to her knees as she protects Brody from whatever harm Lexa’s going to inflict on him again.

(Lexa stills when she sees the protective stance the girl has taken and it reminds her of a swamp and the sounds of a gun going off—she shakes the thoughts away)

“ _Stop_ ,” the girl says fiercely.

“I’ll stop if he stops,” Lexa states.

Frank has somehow calmed down, since there are no more noises coming out from his mouth but when Lexa turns towards him, she sees that Anna has knocked him on the ground, a purple bruise against his forehead.

“Anna,” Lexa says, rolling her eyes.

“He was rabid,” Anna says, brushing the dust off her pants. She waves at Lexa, pointing to the nearest phone booth. She intends to call an ambulance and Lexa gives a sharp nod.

Lexa turns back to Brody and the girl again. Brody has his hand wrapped around his face, stopping the flow of bleeding. There’s a cut below his eye and scratches against his arms and chest. He looks up at Lexa and nods, his relief showing through his features. Meanwhile, the girl is tending to his wounds, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at the blood.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mutters. “This is my entire fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Brody says calmly. “Bad timing, okay?”

Her face falls but she nods. Brody smiles—it looks painful—before standing up. He wavers slightly and the girl clutches at his arm to keep him from falling. He reaches to get his phone from his pocket, mutters something about calling Olivia before stalking away, a limp visible in his steps.

“Who’s Olivia?” Lexa asks the girl.

The girl wipes off her tears, turning towards her. “His girlfriend,” she answers.

“Hmm, I thought you were together,” Lexa remarks.

“You have the wrong idea, then.”

She’s obviously exhausted and pained and heartbroken. Lexa’s throat bobs as she watches her.

“Do you want to come inside?” she asks, the question coming out of nowhere. She mentally slaps herself. “We’ve got drinks and beer; it’ll make you forget tonight ever happened.” She pauses, realizing that a drink is probably the last thing this girl needs right now. “It’s just an offer—on the house, if you want.”

The girl takes a shaky breath. “My name’s Cecilia,” she says, locking eyes with her.

(Lexa forces down the wave of nostalgia that threatens to wash over her)

“Lexa,” she says in return.

Cecilia glances over at Brody, who’s walking towards her. “I think I might take you up on your offer, Lexa,” she mutters and it’s barely noticeable but her lips have curled into a smile.

Lexa feels the ghost of a grin against her mouth. “Good.”

.

She doesn’t know what’s happening nor how it’s happened but suddenly, she has Cecilia pressed up against her body, her chest flushed with hers, mouth kissing her mouth and they’re both stumbling through Lexa’s apartment, legs entangling with each other, hands roaming, searching, pulling. And it’s messy and needy and Lexa’s lips are burning as she kisses the side of Cecilia’s neck and for the first time in a while, she feels utterly  _complete_.

It started out with a few drinks and Cecilia staring determinedly at her hands. But then the drinks doubled in quantity and Lexa joined her and then Cecilia was talking about Frank and his paranoia, her mom and her obsessive need for her daughter to graduate med school, and everything that had gone shit in her life.

Anna got them a cab. They stumbled inside. And now they’re kissing. Lexa’s got her hand pressed against the side of Cecilia’s face, keeping her close and trying to kiss away the tears that have sprung in her eyes. Cecilia is breathing heavily against her, breath smelling of alcohol and regret and pain.

“Are you sure?” Lexa asks, even though she’s barely sober herself.

“Yes,” Cecilia answers, turning her around and practically shoving her against a table. She tucks herself between Lexa’s legs and attacks her mouth, her fingers clawing at Lexa’s scalp. Lexa pushes against her, returns the same pressure and she taste blood against her tongue, her lips stinging.

The circumstances are not desirable. They are both so heavily drunk and Cecilia is running away from her regret, her guilt, her heartbreak. Lexa does not know what she is doing—she hardly considers herself a one-night stand type of girl but there’s just something about Cecilia that enchants her. She has a sadness that seems to swallow her whole and there’s also the fact that she both seems very old and very young.

Lexa can taste the centuries of pain in her kiss.

She tears off her shirt, roughly throwing it across the room and Cecilia does the same, pulling her blouse off and leaning forward to kiss Lexa again. Her lips are searing burns against her skin and Lexa’s eyebrows furrow because she can’t remember the last time somebody kissed her and left marks on her body.

“Is this okay?” she asks Cecilia, the cool wind leaving goose bumps all over her exposed arms. She has leaned backwards, staring at the blue in Cecilia’s eyes and the gold in her hair. Sky and sun. Lexa feels like she’s soaring towards the heavens.

“More than okay,” Cecilia answers and for once, she’s smiling and Lexa’s heart refuses to slow down.

The kiss slows down, becomes less fiery and more tentative. Cecilia wraps her arms around Lexa’s neck and presses her mouth against the pulse point under Lexa’s chin. The action causes Lexa’s breath to catch in her throat and she closes her eyes, seeing fires rising in the night, a bloody knife in the sand, a man’s body falling on the ground behind her lids.

She doesn’t stop, however.

Cecilia is a person written in tragedy and heartbreak and Lexa is the one reading her pages.

.

Lexa wakes up to a body pressed against her side, arm casually thrown across her stomach. She’s wholly naked and hung over and incredibly thirsty. At first, she’s surprised to find Cecilia still in bed with her. She does look like the type of person to leave in the middle of the night but she’s even more surprised to find out that she’s glad the blonde stayed.

She pulls her close, buries her nose against the mass of golden curls and closes her eyes, trying to make this last. Cecilia stirs but doesn’t wake, instead mumbling something in her sleep. Lexa smiles before pressing a soft kiss against her forehead. She slept with a stranger but somehow, this feels like  _home_.

(Lexa  _knows_  her—she does and she can’t help but wonder how many times she’s thought those words before)

She falls asleep once more but not before whispering, “May we see each other again.”

.

When she wakes up for the second time the next morning, the left side of the bed is empty.

(Lexa is hurt but she is not surprised)

*

(She still dreams of  _her_  sometimes—the girl with the sun in her hair and the sky in her eyes—

and she was nothing more than a one-night stand

but Lexa remembers the burn of her kiss

and the way it hurt,

leaving scorch marks in its wake)

*

**Washington DC [2052]**

Lexa sees her and suddenly, everything turns to ruins. Her name is Claire and oh, she’s the one who got away. 

Their meeting is very brief. Whispers of a nuclear weapon have been brewing for a long time now and plenty of people have evacuated under the impression of the whim but Lexa is not one of them. She does not believe the countries are foolish enough to use such weapons, let alone use it to end a war.

(In the end, she’s the foolish one)

She comes across the golden-haired girl in the train station. She’s got her earphones tucked in and her phone held tightly in her hand as she weaves through the tight crowd of people waiting on the platform. She jostles shoulders with guys and bumps knees with girls and really, her train can’t get fast enough here. She sends a quick text to her mom saying that she’ll be late for dinner when her train screeches into the platform, doors opening. Everybody stumbles inside and Lexa follows.

It doesn’t take long for her to find a seat and when she does, she quickly puts her bag on her lap and brings the volume up for her music. The train starts again and Lexa leans her head against the window when a flash of gold appears to her left and a girl plops into the empty seat next to her.

Lexa makes the mistake of looking at her and once she does, it feels as if someone has shaken her entire world.

Eyes the colors of the sky look over at her and a lump bobs painfully in Lexa’s throat. The girl sitting next to her has blonde hair, straight and pulled into a ponytail curled near her shoulder. She looks very pretty.

(And also very familiar)

“Have we met before?” Lexa asks, pulling off her earphones and shutting off her phone. 

The girl smiles politely. “I don’t think so,” she says. “If we did, I would’ve remembered.”

A blush appears on Lexa’s cheeks and she manages a small grin. “Right, I’m sorry.” She then notices the huge amount of luggage the girl is carrying and can’t help but inquire, “Headed for a long trip?”

The girl laughs and it’s not entirely too comfortable. “Something like that,” she says, twisting the hem of her shirt nervously. She bites her lip and Lexa meets her gaze. “I’m Claire, by the way.”

“Lexa.” They shake hands.

“So, Lexa, do you watch the news?” Claire asks lightly.

“That’s a very strange topic,” Lexa remarks.

Claire smiles. “Yeah, well—there are a lot of things happening right now.” The smile fades and the blonde looks deep in thought, until Lexa bumps their shoulders together.

“It’ll blow over,” Lexa says, “It always does. I hate the newly implemented curfew, though.”

“True. We can’t go out and play with our friends anymore,” Claire says.

There’s a short silence and Lexa can tell that Claire is just dying to share something and she’d be lying if she said that she isn’t the least bit curious. Before she can speak up, however, Claire turns to look at her again.

“Do you believe in what they’re saying? That the government is building some sort of spaceship to get us away from earth?” She asks.

It’s a crazy but plausible theory and Lexa can’t help but feel as if they’re doing something illegal, especially since they are talking about a conspiracy concerning the government. She wants to make some sort of joke but the deep worry in Claire’s eyes seem troubling.

“I’ve heard of it,” she says truthfully, “but I’ve never had reason to believe.”

“My mom calls it the Ark,” Claire whispers in a hushed tone. Her eyes are wide with reverence and awe—she looks like one of those children who first hears the story of the red man sneaking gifts into the chimney at night during Christmas. “Just like in the Bible—with Noah and his sons.”

Lexa fights back a laugh. “I’m sure that if they were making something _that_  big, the world would know.”

“But the world  _does_  know!” Claire insists. “People have been talking about it but no one believes.”

“They’ve never had reason to,” Lexa argues. “There will be no need to fly off into space when earth is still sustainable.”

“It won’t be for long,” Claire mutters darkly.

Lexa pauses, tilting her head to the side. “You really believe in this nuclear war, don’t you?”

“With Hitler and the Nazis, it’s kind of hard not to believe that somebody else can be crueler,” Claire states, as if she’s been thinking this through for a while now. She turns back to Lexa, meets her gaze defiantly and her jaw is clenched in a way that makes it clear that she’s not going to back down in what she believes. “You might think I’m crazy, Lexa—”

“Not crazy,” Lexa says and even as she says it, she faintly remembers the image of a golden-haired girl standing in the desert, the sun shining on her face, her teeth gleaming in its glare. “Just opinionated.”

Claire grins at her. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

The train shudders suddenly and Claire flinches. Lexa, for some reason, reaches out to grab her hand and Claire looks at her, grateful as she intertwines their fingers together.

(Lexa thinks that she might’ve held these same hands before but she can’t remember where and when)

“You sound pretty paranoid,” Lexa says lightly.

“Well, my parents are.” Claire bites her lower lip, exhales a deep breath. “I’m actually going to meet them later tonight. They’re going to drive me to this facility, where hopefully, the stories of the Ark are true.”

“You’re going to space?” Lexa asks incredulously.

Claire shrugs, avoids her gaze. “If it’s true.”       

The train suddenly shudders into a stop and Lexa looks out the window, realizing that this is her stop. She lets go of Claire’s hand and stands, shooting her an apologetic smile.

“This is my stop,” she says. “Sorry.”

Claire nods. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a small smile.

“Hopefully, I’ll see you again,” Lexa says as she takes a step towards the sliding doors. “See you in space, Claire!” She means it as a joke but her chest suddenly tightens at the thought of Claire leaving, even though they’ve only met mere seconds ago. The pull is there and Lexa is not stupid enough to ignore it.

She looks at her once more but Claire has already turned away, pulling out her phone and texting somebody. Her mom, her boyfriend, best friend—who knows.

(And maybe that’s why it hurts—because Lexa does not know her and she never will)

 _Not in this lifetime anyway_ , a voice whispers but she shakes it off, merely classifies it as wishful thinking.

She does not know that it’s the truth.

*

(When the nuclear bombs fall on earth in waves,

the only thing Lexa can think of—as the radiation slowly kills her inside and out—

is the fact that somewhere in the skies and between the moon and stars,

Claire is watching all of these unfold)

*

**The New World [2149]**

They find  _Heda_ ’s spirit within her when she’s seven and she meets Clarke of the Sky People a decade later.

Lexa has always known that she was meant for something greater and surely, there is no greater glory than being chosen as the leader for your people. She passes the test when the Tri Kru chieftains come into their village, looking for the next commander. It takes several long days and those days are hard, full of battle strategy and arguments and fighting skills but soon enough, Lexa emerges victorious.

The chieftains reward her with the red sash and the previous  _Heda_ ’s sword; presses it into her small palm and wishes her the best of luck and that may the gods look upon her with grace. When she leaves her mother and father and the rest of her village, they gaze upon her with reverence, mixed with fear and pride. They cheer for her as she passes and they don’t stop, until she disappears into the woods.

She trembles with excitement, not fear.

(She is naïve and young and doesn’t know the horrors of war)

Anya is proud of her, but is surely sad to see her go. She will have to look for another second, another girl who wants this kind of life and Lexa fails to tell her that they knew each other before, that her name was once Anna and she threw men away like garbage, the same way she throws the heads of enemies into the river in this life.

She fails to tell her that they were once friends.

Commander Lexa—the newly found  _Heda_ —leaves her village and never looks back.

.

Lexa has always known that she was different from the rest of her people. Ever since she was a child, she remembers things not even the elders could’ve known. She remembers the Before, the world when it was still beautiful and innocent and gentle and even decades before that. She remembers the dry lands, the mountainsides, the cold ocean, the green of the hills, the town plazas where there were often plays or executions, a train slowly moving through the tunnels—she remembers everything.

She remembers  _her_  most of all.

She doesn’t know why this life is different—maybe it’s  _Heda_ ’s spirit that has changed her fate but she does know that she was chosen for a reason. She has the opportunity to make her people’s lives better, to save the ones trapped in Mount Weather and to forge a new path ahead.

She cannot afford distractions.

.

Costia presses her lips against Lexa’s, smiling sweetly. She tastes of herbal tea and mint leaves and she’s holding the sides of Lexa’s face carefully, as if she’s a masterpiece meant to be held with caution. Lexa’s heart threatens to burst out of her ribcage as she slowly returns the kiss. They’re in her tent and everything is peaceful, like the calm before the sea.

(Costia is her first and Lexa would do anything for her to be the last)

.

 _Costia is not a distraction_ , Lexa thinks numbly as she stares down at Costia’s severed head, already decaying with time.  _Costia is strong and regal and beautiful and she is_ not  _a distraction, she is—_

She is dead and love is weakness.

.

Gustus finds her kneeling in front of Costia’s grave, palms pressed tightly against her eyes to stop the flowing of her tears. Her sword lies discarded on the grass next to her feet and her chest is shaking with her repressed sobs. Costia is gone, dead, head ripped off because of  _her_  and she doesn’t know how to deal with this kind of agony, this kind of guilt, this kind of  _hurt_  when she’s just so young in this life.

(But she’s lying if she says that she doesn’t feel the bit least of relief at the thought that the golden-haired girl in her memories is not the same girl lying on the grave underneath her feet)

(She hates herself)

(She has every right to hate herself)

Gustus stands over her, protective. They found each other when Lexa came to Polis. She recognized him immediately, the friend Gunther from Greece and the brother Gavin from North Carolina. He is older in this life, nearing his forties and his beard is thicker, reaching his chest but she knows his face and the look in his eyes and his undying loyalty.

“ _Heda_ ,” he says, crouching next to her as she continues to sob, “ _Heda,_ it is over. She is in peace.”

He speaks in Trigedasleng and Lexa raises her face, her war paint ruined. Her fingers are shaking as she puts them against the ground, feeling for the soft dirt. Costia is buried down there and she  _shouldn’t_  be. She should be alive and well and laughing and her curly hair should be flying in the wind now and she should be happy. She should not be  _dead_  and it’s all Lexa’s fault—

“ _Heda_ ,” Gustus says again, shaking her shoulder lightly. He is all rough exterior but he has gentle hands and an even gentler soul and Lexa’s heart jumps in her throat when she remembers his laugh as Gavin.

“Don’t,” she says sharply and he is quick to lean back. She raises a shaking hand and rolls it into a fist. “Don’t call me  _Heda_. Not now. I don’t want to be  _Heda_.”

“But you are,” Gustus firmly states, warm brown eyes staring at her. “You are  _Heda_  and your people need you.”

And it always comes down to this: Lexa’s humanity or her people.

(Her people come first)

.

A big chunk of metal falls from the sky and drops a hundred children into the ground. Lexa knows, because this is what Anya tells her during a meeting, and she knows that the newcomers pose a threat, especially since they have already claimed the land they’ve dropped on. Most of them range from 12 to 17 years old. They are young. They are foolish. They are enemies.

She barks an order at a small group of warriors, tells them to send a warning at the  _skaikru_.

They throw a spear at Jasper Jordan’s chest and hang him up for dead. The next day, he is gone.

Dread fills Lexa’s stomach, almost as if she knows what’s to come.

.

She sends Anya to a negotiation with the leader of the  _skaikru_. She comes back limping with a bullet in her shoulder and blood trailing behind her wake. She talks of a golden-haired girl who speaks sweet words and offers salvation, hope and  _peace_  and Lexa’s heart threatens to burst out of her ribcage when she hears.

(It  _can’t_ be her)

(It’s impossible—the last time they saw each other, it had been 97 years ago and  _that_  girl was already scattered across the skies when Lexa’s body burned and blistered with radiation)

She sends a plague through the use of John Murphy and when that doesn’t work, she slams 300 warriors on their makeshift camp, intent on breaking the  _skaikru_  that have invaded their lands and killed their people.

(She does not let the thought of destroying the golden-haired girl reach her head)

But when her people burn and most of the invaders have been captured by the Mountain Men, Lexa sits still in her throne and tries not to let her chieftains see the way her hands shake against her lap. No one must know, especially not Gustus, who stands by her side, unflinching and loyal still.

(They must not know that her heart yearns for a girl she can never have, a girl she has lost over and over again in the past centuries she has lived on this earth, a girl with the sun in her hair and the sky in her eyes)

There must be no further distractions.

(There must be no further incidents like Costia)

.

When she hears of the massacre at Ton DC, Lexa decides to take matters in her own hands. She disguises herself as a small fearful girl, who looks as if she is afraid of her own shadow. Gustus is hesitant to let her in with the two prisoners but she stops him with a glare, her voice is firm when she says that she knows how to take care of herself.

(She’s been trained her whole life; nothing surprises her nowadays)

But then she sees Marcus Kane, tired and bloodied and some part of her ancient soul clicks on itself.  He looks starved and exhausted and there is stubble against his chin, shadows under his eyes. He does not look like the guard she was given back in Greece—Mark her guard was young and noble and proud, willing to protect her at all costs but Marcus Kane looks like he has too many ghosts on his shoulders, weighing him down to the point that he is ready to use the knife against himself.

Thelonious Jaha stops him. Lexa does not recognize Jaha. Marcus does not recognize her.

It is a wonder—how everything has come to full circle.

.

When Gustus tells her that the leader of the sky people wishes to have an audience with her, Lexa almost tells him no. But that is weakness and she knows that she must cave in. She is not ready to face the girl of her past, the girl she’s found in her many lives on this earth, the girl she has loved in too many different ways.

“What is her name?” she asks, keeping her hands flat against the war table.

“Clarke,” Gustus growls. Her name does not sound holy against his harsh tongue and Lexa clenches her fists, holds herself back. “ _Klok_   _kom skaikru_.”

Cora. Cassandra. Cynthia. Catherine. Clara. Cecilia. Claire.

And now Clarke  _kom skaikru_.

Lexa closes her eyes and tries not to let the past overwhelm her.

Later that afternoon, she puts on her armor and draws in her war paint. They give her the impression of the strong powerful  _Heda_  that she is but she does not feel powerful, she feels like a child wearing gear too big for her. She feels like a fool, pretending to be something that she does not and she wonders if this is how Catherine from Scotland felt like when she took her friend’s armor and pretended it was her own.

She draws her knife and sits on her throne, waiting. Her fingers shake but she forces them still.

And then—

 _—Clarke_  walks in.

Lexa keeps her eyes trained on the ground but she can feel the way her entire body tenses at the blonde’s presence and it’s almost like every part of her being has to tighten in order not to fall apart. She tries to keep her voice even as she talks about the 300 burned warriors back in their poorly protected camp and when her gaze flicks over to the girl standing in front of her, she does not expect the steely look of determination in her eyes.

Her golden hair is frayed at the edges and her face is clean, washed off from any dirt or any fresh wounds. Her clothes still have flecks of blood upon them ( _the_ Tri Kru _’s blood)_ and her eyes—her eyes look like  _home._  Lexa doesn’t know what her home is—she foolishly believed it to be the village in Egypt, the mountainsides of Greece, the harsh open sea of England, the blade in her hand as she fought in Scotland, Gavin’s laugh in their home back in North Carolina, the small bar in New York City and the music she listened to in Washington—but she’s wrong. Those places, people,  _feelings_  were never her home.

Clarke and every version of her scream of centuries of pain and loss but Lexa always found her and maybe that’s what her definition of a home is. The constant part of her many lives, the one who is always  _there._

“You’re the one who sent them there to kill us,” Clarke retorts and her voice—she’s had many accents before—but she always sounds the same, always sounds fierce and strong and confident.

Lexa drinks her in quietly. She is young and beautiful but she seems different in this life—there are shadows under her eyes and she looks as if she’s barely holding the world together. Her jaw might be tense and her eyes might be full of determination but Lexa knows a broken girl when she sees one.

“Do you have an answer for me, Clarke of the Sky People?” The name sounds foreign against her tongue still but Lexa says it anyway, in hopes that the girl standing in front of her might remember that she had other names before—Cora, Cassandra, Claire, etc.

Clarke meets her gaze defiantly and Lexa’s heart burns when she realizes that she does not remember.

.

 _Heda_ is cruel to make her remember.

.

Anya is dead and Lexa thinks of Anna instead. She does not think of the harsh mentor with the sharp voice and the sharper knife, the mentor who pressed a weapon against her hands and demanded her to be strong; she thinks of the woman in New York instead, the one who laughed at the misfortune of men, the one who could knock out a guy with just a right hook, the one who was Lexa’s friend first before her teacher.

.

Lincoln lives, gasping for air and shaking with madness, eyes searching frantically around before they fall on the sky girl they call Octavia. His relief is obvious when he whispers her name and the girl Octavia wraps her arms around him, keeps him close and Lexa does not know the full story but she knows love when she sees it and Lincoln loves this sky girl, even though they are worlds apart.

(Octavia is willing to fall for him and Lincoln aches to fly with her)

Lexa cannot remember the last time she saw something as pure as their connection but then she looks over at Clarke (who has already been looking at her for a while now) and suddenly, she remembers and she  _knows_.

.

She watches as Bellamy and Finn help a limping Lincoln to Camp Jaha, accompanied closely by the sister Octavia. She remembers them both; Bellamy as Clara’s Benjamin and then Cecilia’s Brody; Finn as Cora’s Fenuku and Cecilia’s Frank. She wonders why the two of them are so closely knitted with Clarke’s other versions, why they seem to pop up like weeds.

Bellamy is Clarke’s second. Finn is Clarke’s mistake—he killed 18 of her people and he must pay.

Clarke walks up next to her and Lexa nods. She does not mention the price of their alliance until they are back in the commander’s tent.

(She wishes not to see the heartbreak in Clarke’s face when she breaks the news)

.

“Our truce begins,” Lexa says slowly, “with his death.”

Clarke’s face falls and the hope in her eyes diminishes, quickly replaced by shock, understanding and then anguish. Lexa tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword, wonders if it’ll be satisfying, when she’ll drive the blade straight through the boy who first killed her in Egypt, all those years ago.

.

“He did it for  _me_ ,” Clarke begs, pleads even and her voice breaks and tears spring into her eyes. She wears her heart on her sleeve and Lexa can see it shattering.

( _I died for_ you _,_ Lexa thinks to herself,  _back in Egpyt, when I trusted you and_ he _drove a knife to my heart_ )

“Then he dies for you,” she says simply, without emotion and Clarke stills, watches her, waiting for her to take it back, to free her lover, her  _mistake_.

Lexa doesn’t move.

Clarke closes her eyes and it seems as if the entire world has crushed her, which in a way, it has. The universe and the gods have never been kind to her. She perished in Greece, she watched her church burn in England, she nearly died at the battle in Scotland, she lost her friend in North Carolina and she was broken beyond repair in New York. She wears her pain as if it’s a second skin and Lexa aches to try and shed it off.

She does not deserve the agony she receives.

“Can I say goodbye?” Clarke asks, looking back at Lexa once she has digested the news.

Lexa thinks of Costia’s head and of her past life in Greece, Cassandra kissing her lips before she walks straight to the fires of Athens. She thinks that it would be cruel not to give Clarke this chance, especially since she has been robbed off her goodbyes all too well.

She nods.

Clarke looks immensely grateful and Lexa thinks that it’s worth it; how the relief in her eyes spills across her features. She watches the blonde walk slowly towards Finn ( _Fenuku_ , Lexa remembers, thinking of how young he looks, strapped to that tree, ready to embrace death) and clutch at him with her shoulders shaking. Clarke presses her lips against his and Lexa’s heart aches.

(Their story has always been written in the blood of tragedy and pain and they are never happy)

When Clarke kills Finn herself and turns to the sky with tears in her eyes, Lexa wonders how something so broken and powerful could look so wrenchingly beautiful at the same time.

.

Clarke sobs, scrubs at the blood on her fingers, tears streaming down her cheeks. She cries, heart shattering as she reaches out for her mother and Lexa lingers by the opening of the tent, watching her break.

.

Lexa lies on her back against the covers of her bed, staring at the ceiling of her tent and trying to trace back her lifetimes. She knows that Egypt was the first time she breathed life and that she was hard and cynical, speaking of love as weakness. She thinks that it’s ironic, how her first life and her latest have come to full circle. Love is weakness still, Fenuku ended her life in Egypt and now because of Lexa’s catch in the deal, Finn Collins is dead, Cora was beautiful and Clarke still is.    

 _Clarke_ —Lexa knows that she’s loved every other version of this young girl but she does not know if she can bear to love her in this life, especially after Costia and especially in this situation—where they are both leaders of war and love can ruin anything that is to be loved.

(Her story has already been written in her mind’s eye; they always meet in times of war and Lexa always loves the girl with the sun in her hair and the sky in her eyes and there is no changing the fact that they’ve always been doomed from the start)

 _It’d be lovely, though_ , Lexa thinks when she faintly remembers Greece, Scotland and New York,  _to be able to love her the way I’ve always had—always with the hesitation and familiarity_ ,  _always with the pain_.

She dozes off with Clarke’s name falling from her lips.

.

Lexa sweeps her eyes across the Sky People stationed to her right. They all wear heavy expressions and the girl named Raven has tears streaming down her cheeks. Lexa bites her tongue when she nearly thinks of her as  _Rysia_  because she is not the same Rysia who fought with her in the shores of Scotland. She is weaker in this life, full of love and emotion. She is not the strong Viking Rysia who was given the title Rysia The Ravenous because she tore enemies apart with her teeth.

She recognizes some of them—Marcus Kane, Bellamy Blake, Raven Reyes and then _Clarke_. They look so young but most of them don’t know that they are all so old, that they’ve already felt war pressing down against their shoulders and that they’ve already had tears of loss streaming down their faces. Their blood is eternal, ancient—dating back to centuries and centuries before this moment. They are immortal.

Lexa wonders if some of them remember their past lives.

Finn has been covered in a blanket and placed on top of the 18 he massacred. Lexa steps up, speaking of how fire will finally cleanse the pain of the past. Her eyes fall on Clarke when she reaches the last word and she can’t stop the lump in her throat when she remembers how fire has never been friendly to them both.

“Clarke,” she says, after she’s received the torch. It is cruel, to make her destroy every part of the boy she loves but Lexa has gone past the point of trying to be gentle.

Clarke looks up, pain written all over her features and Lexa raises her eyebrow slightly as she extends the torch forward.

The Sky People are glaring at her now, Bellamy the hardest and Lexa does not need to tell them that Clarke  _needs_  this, that in order for her to move on and be a great leader, sacrifices must be made.

(She does not need to tell them that she’s been on this road already)

“ _Yu gonplei ste odon_ ,” Clarke whispers once she’s standing next to Lexa and tearfully looking at Finn’s figure. She sets the bodies on fire, unaware that everybody has stopped moving.  _Your fight is over_.

Lexa turns to look at her, lips slightly parted. The flames have caught on by then, fingers of fire reaching out and destroying the pain of 18 deaths. She remembers Egypt again, Cora meeting her unflinching gaze and saying, “It is over.” Clarke has the same look Cora had, filled with regret and guilt and its startling—just how much she is still the same, even after all these years.

The fire burns and Lexa feels as if she’s burning along with it.

.

“I lost someone special to me too,” Lexa tells her, once the flames have died down and only the ashes remain.

Clarke doesn’t move but she seems to be listening and Lexa takes a steadying breath, ignoring the way her fingers have tightened on the hilt of her sword. It still hurts to think of Costia and of how beautiful she was, laughter always ringing from her mouth, smiling at Lexa as if she was the most wonderful being in the world.

“Her name was Costia,” Lexa continues gently and Clarke turns towards her, her gaze rising and then dropping to the ground. “She was captured by the Ice Nation, whose queen believed she knew my secrets. Because she was mine, they tortured her, killed her, cut off her head.” She takes several deep breaths, forcing away the images of Costia’s head and her battered body. She does not need this—she does not need Clarke to see just how much it still hurts her.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispers.

Lexa nods once before continuing, “I thought I would never get over the pain but I  _did_.”

(It’s a lie—the pain is still there, lingering beneath the surface, choking her at times when she thinks of it)

“How?” Clarke asks and she seems  _desperate_ to know. Her voice is tight and she looks angry at herself.

“By recognizing it for what it is,” Lexa answers, turning to look at her. Her jaw is clenched when she spits out the word, “ _Weakness_.”

It’s not a lie this time. Lexa thinks back to all those times she’s suffered because of Clarke’s past versions. She thinks back to Egypt, where she was killed for trusting her; to Greece, where she crumbled because Cassandra perished; to England, where she let her enemy— _Cynthia_ —go; to Scotland, where Catherine made her question what she was fighting for. Love has always been weakness, pain and anguish intertwined into one person and as Lexa turns away from Clarke’s needy gaze, she is sure of one thing.

She will always be weak for Clarke  _kom skaikru_.

.

Raven screams the way Rysia screamed—with a fiery emotion that left scorch marks in its wake.

Lexa does not want to kill her. Lexa does not want to harm her at all.

But she thinks back to Gustus collapsing, shaking with poison and betrayal and she manages to make another gash across the brunette’s arms. She watches the blood running down against Raven’s skin and swallows the bile rising in her throat.

It is not pretty but it is their way.

.

When Clarke drinks from the bottle, Lexa nearly shouts.

.

Gustus shakes when Lexa steps in front of him. Her face is a stoic mask but she can feel tears stinging the back of her eyes when they meet his gaze. He is bloody, gashes and wound bleeding red but he still manages to stand strong at the sight of his commander.

(Gavin has always done foolish things for Lexa but  _this_ —this is to be painful to be funny)

“Be strong,” Gustus tells her and she nearly collapses, holding onto the hilt of her sword to stop the shaking of her fingers.

“ _Yu gonplei ste odon_ ,” Lexa states blankly and she ends his life with the smallest of gasps.

When she looks up, Clarke is staring at her.

(She does not blame her)

.

Lexa does not know what she feels for Clarke in this life. Yes, she is strong and beautiful (and utterly broken, but Lexa does not think about that) and she leads with her undeniably golden heart but she can be reckless and compassionate and too  _caring_. When it comes to war, caring can lead to disastrous consequences.

Clarke, however, is also very intelligent. She voices out plenty of flaws in the chieftain’s plans, insisting that they wait for Bellamy to get inside the Mountain in order for the acid fog to shut down. She is very convincing but Lexa’s warriors are starting to get impatient and all these time spent waiting for one man to get inside is starting to make Lexa impatient too.

She can taste war against her lips and she wonders if Clarke can taste it too.

.

 _“Attack her and you attack me_ ,” Lexa growls, staring down at Quint, who raises his wide, terrified eyes at her.

Clarke is breathing hard, trying to catch her breath as she whips around to look at Lexa, who keeps her gaze firmly locked on Quint. She only looks her way when the blonde chokes out a shaky, “Thank you.”

Lexa nods and then turns back to Quint. Her fingers are still when she shoves her knife back against her belt.

She pretends not to notice Clarke watching her.

.

Clarke didn’t leave her to die.

 _Clarke didn’t leave her to die_.

Lexa jerks suddenly when the blonde in question reaches forward to tie a sling for her arm. Her fingers are warm—Lexa can feel it through the multitude of armor she has and she has to clench her jaw in order to stop feeling the heat against her cheeks. She remembers the last time she’s touched Clarke, which was 97 years ago, during that train ride in Washington. She remembers holding Clarke’s hand, giving her reassurance and warmth.

(Lexa can’t possibly give that to her now)

“You should’ve left me behind,” she says, her voice steely. She glances over at Clarke who meets her gaze defiantly. “Now two here will die instead of one.”     

There’s a fire in Clarke blue eyes, a fire that strongly reminds Lexa of Greece and of what she had lost there.

(Greece will always be her favorite lifetime—because she loved Cassandra and Cassandra loved her back)

(Even though it did not last)

.

Lexa has to wonder—if Clarke knew who she was, what would she do? What would she say? Would she be sitting around in her tent, moaning about lost loves and doing nothing, the same way Lexa is?

No, Clarke would do something about it.

Their past lives prove that much.

.

Costia always foolishly believed that love is strength, that love paves way for a new beginning in the  _Tri Kru_ ’s future, and that love will always prevail in the sense that it can do no wrong.

That did not stop the queen of Ice Nation from cutting off her head and leaving her to rot in the snow.

Love is  _weakness_  and it always will be.

.

Clarke looks young when she’s sleeping. She does not have the furrow of doubt in her eyebrows or the grim look on her features or the heavy weight of responsibility against her shoulders. She looks the same way Catherine had looked in Scotland and the same way Cecilia had looked in New York. She looks serene, peaceful. She looks beautiful.

Lexa would not wish this kind of life on her. Being a leader is hard—unbearable at times and they must always endure.

She wonders if Clarke knows what she’s gotten herself into, if she knows what price she will pay soon enough.

(Lexa’s price was Costia and she’s still reminded by her every day)

.

Costia was soft, sweet and she touched Lexa as if the commander was a masterpiece, a piece of art that should be handled with care at all costs.

Lexa isn’t a piece of art. She’s a mangled remain of what war has done to her, a dull knife pretending to be sharp, something ruined, something shattered, something  _broken_. She takes and she destroys and she’s war stuck in a young girl’s body. She is the  _Heda_ of a thousand soliders and she is not something to be underestimated and she should not be kept waiting—

But still, she waits for Clarke. The war meeting is about to begin and she’s still waiting for Clarke.

.

The thought of a missile is terrifying enough but the thought of that missile hitting Ton DC where all of her people ( _and Clarke—always with Clarke_ ) are stationed twists something inside Lexa’s chest. Her stomach churns as she goes through all the possible outcomes in her head, all leading to disastrous consequences. If the Mountain Men knew Bellamy is inside their territory then this war will never end. More people will die, more lives will be lost. They cannot lose Bellamy.

(Clarke would never forgive her too. She cares about Bellamy—anybody can see that—and Lexa’s heart twists a bit more again)

Lexa must sacrifice a few of her people in order to save the majority. Her mind sets on that and if she tries hard enough, she can ignore the screaming of her heart.

“And what about us?” Clarke asks, stepping closer.

Lexa clenches her jaw at the word  _us_. There has never been  _us_  in Lexa’s vocabulary—only  _me_.

“We slip away,” Lexa answers, turning to Clarke and defiantly meeting her gaze. Clarke stares back, her jaw clenched. “Right now.”

She thinks back to Greece and how she had failed to save Cassandra back then, how the fires had consumed her. Lexa cannot let it happen again. She can’t bear the thought of losing Clarke once more, especially when she’s just found her in this life and especially when she has every reason to get  _this_  right.

Lexa feels something ancient inside her shatter when Clarke refuses to leave, arguing that they can still  _save_ lives. Lexa is foreign to the word—she does not know how to save; all she knows what to do is take and  _destroy_.

Costia proved that much.

It’s haunting really, how even after all these centuries; she still has the heart to save the people whom she cares for ( _but Ton DC is not her people_ , Lexa thinks to herself), even if it means her demise.

Lexa loves her for it but she cannot let her compassion get in the way of a needed sacrifice. They cannot stay, they cannot raise a finger to stop the missile.

When Clarke looks at her, her face full of pain and fear, it feels like Cassandra all over again.

.

“Clarke, you can’t go back!” There is desperation in Lexa’s tone but Clarke doesn’t notice. She stares at the village, the same way she had stared at Finn, right before she plunged the knife into his heart.

(The same way she used to stare at Lexa, all those years ago)

The girl turns, runs back to the village and Lexa’s heart jumps to her throat.

“ _Clarke_!” she tries again, sets her lips in a straight line when Clarke doesn’t look back.

( _We will see each other again_ , Cassandra had told her in Greece)

The pieces of Lexa’s heart shrivel at the thought of losing her but all she can do is watch.

.

The air tastes of smoke and ash, fire and blood—it tastes of war and death, of everything that  _Heda_ Lexa stands for. She wanders through the forest, fruitlessly searching for Clarke, a lump stuck in her throat. She tells herself that if Clarke is dead, then it will be good—one less person who knows about the missile but the thought is unbearable and she shakes it off.

Fire has always taken everything from her. Fire from Greece, England, fire in the radiation burns she felt from Washington. Fire has yet again won this time. As she looks towards the hazy smoke in the sky, she silently asks the gods what she has done to ever deserve this.

Clarke can’t be dead. Clarke can’t be dead. Clarke can’t—

Lexa breathes a sigh of relief when she finds Clarke stumbling towards a clearing, shaking and coughing, broken but  _alive_. Alive. She is alive. There are tears in her eyes and her mouth is trembling but she is breathing with life _._  Words full of guilt and regret stumble from her lips and there is soot against her cheeks.  As Lexa clutches her shoulders, shaking her until she’s back to her senses, she can’t help but think that Ton DC was worth it.  

(Lexa allows this one selfish thought to take root in her head—Clarke is alive and Ton DC was worth it)

“I want the Mountain Men dead,” Clarke shakily says, looking at Lexa with defiance, “All of them.”

.

Oh, Lexa has killed plenty. In battle. In arguments. In times where she loses patience and in times where people ask for it. She has killed for selfless reasons. She has killed for selfish ones as well. Her hands are tainted with blood and can never be washed off. She is used to death. She  _is_ death. One word and she can end someone’s life, one nod and soldiers would die for her, one gesture and she can end a generation.

She’s killed so much that she knows that Clarke won’t feel better once she’s killed the shooter. She wishes to shelter the girl from the horrors of war and she wishes for her to understand that the crown is heavy, making the hearts of leaders heavier. Clarke Griffin of the Sky People deserves so much more than  _this_.

(Lexa wants to give her everything she deserves)

Clarke of the Sky People is broken but Lexa still falls for her anyway, the same way she always has, the same way she always will.

.

Lexa feels the souls of her village weighing her down with each step.

They ask her, “ _Was it worth it_? _”_

They ask her,  _“You let us all die. Was it worth it_?”

They ask her,  _“Heda, was it worth it_?”

Her answer remains the same.

 _Yes_.

.

“Did that make you feel better?” Lexa asks.

Clarke’s face hardens. “No,” she answers.

(Lexa doesn’t say, “ _I nearly tore apart the Ice Nation once, for killing Costia. It didn’t make me feel better too”_ )

(She doesn’t say,  _“I was a Viking and I killed thousands. But then I met you and I realized I had no idea what I was fighting for in the first place”_ )

(She doesn’t say, “ _Nothing will make us feel better, except for winning this war”_ )

But Lexa thinks of touching Clarke, kissing her sweet mouth, remembering the taste of freedom back in Greece and New York and she’s suddenly not so sure.

.

Lexa is not jealous.

The great Commander of the Twelve Clans is not  _jealous_ —

But if she has to hear one more word about Bellamy from Clarke’s mouth then she might need to plant some rules about Clarke entering her tent in the middle of the night while she’s trying to fall asleep. Clarke needs to understand that doubting their every move is a waste of time and that it will cost them a night’s rest.

She understands the girl’s unease, however. War brings out the worst in people, shoving out doubts and fears into the open and shedding light onto the façade people have bravely put on.

“If only it were that easy,” Clarke spits, looking frustrated and Lexa feels something inside her chest tighten. She swallows thickly, watching as the girl turns away.

“You were born for this, Clarke,” Lexa says softly, wanting nothing more than to reach out and comfort her in some way. She doesn’t. Instead, she adds, “Same as me.”

.

“250 people died in that village. I know you felt for them,” Clarke snaps, her eyes never leaving Lexa’s, “but you let them burn.”

Lexa inhales slowly, dread settling at the bottom of her stomach. She does not know what to do, does not know what words to carefully say. She wants Clarke to know that she would’ve let countless others burn as well—if she had a choice, she would’ve burned the entire world down.

(In this life, she’s  _Heda_  so she doesn’t have a choice)

Lexa has spent countless years—centuries,  _decades_  even—finding her, hating her, loving her, losing her and then  _forgetting_ her. It’s clockwork, fixed points in times and now that Lexa remembers—now that she  _knows_ —she doesn’t want to ruin it. She has the chance, the choice to get everything right, to make it  _last_.

She can’t bear the thought of losing Clarke  _kom skaikru_. They never end up together. Lexa always loses her. Their tale is old—eternal—and Lexa has to fix the ending. She has to.

“Not everyone,” Lexa tells her, taking another breath, “Not  _you_.”

Clarke blinks and then takes a step back. Lexa’s heart twists. Has Clarke always looked at her like that? Like a monster incapable of caring for others?

Lexa can feel tears stinging the back of her eyes.

“Wha—” Clarke doesn’t finish. She shakes her head slightly, still looking at her in awe. “If you care about me—then trust me. Octavia is not a threat.”

Lexa searches her face, trying to look for any signs of recognition. Maybe there’s some kind of chance—Lexa doesn’t get her hopes up, however.

( _Maybe Clarke will remember_ , a voice whispers but she squashes it down)

“I can’t do that,” she murmurs.

Clarke’s face falls but she quickly brings her guard back up. Fixing Lexa with a cool stare, she says, “I can’t sacrifice my people anymore.” There’s a pause and Lexa can hear her heart pounding. “If you do anything to hurt Octavia, I’ll tell everyone we knew about the missile.”

When she walks off, Lexa has a mental image of the girl’s past lives turning away from her.

(She’s seen it plenty of times before but it still hurts, like an open wound that she can’t close)

.

Clarke’s lips are chapped; Lexa soon comes to find out. She tastes of blood and of freedom and of  _pain_. Lexa greedily breathes all of these in, closing her eyes as she remembers Greece and New York, the only lifetimes where she was given the chance to taste these said lips. She kisses Clarke softly, keeping her hand on the blonde’s cheek and her heart aches in a way that makes her realize that she badly  _wants_  this. She wants nothing more than to stay in this one place next to the girl with the sun in her hair and the sky in her eyes.

The kiss ends shortly but Lexa still wants more and Clarke complies because she leans forward, pushing against Lexa. Lexa pushes back, feeling Clarke’s hand holding her elbow, and in this kiss, she remembers it all, remembers Cora’s easy smile in the desert, Cassandra’s pretty curls  in Greece, Cynthia’s accent in England, Catherine’s expert hands in Scotland, Clara’s persuasive voice in North Carolina, Cecilia’s rough, pleading lips, Claire’s soft, anxious eyes. She remembers the feeling of loving her, of being betrayed by her, of being kissed by her, of being held by her—she remembers the achingly wonderful feeling of  _home_  and kissing Clarke now, with nothing to hold them back (except for the demands of war, except for their people) Lexa feels as if she’s come home for the first time in decades.

The kiss ends again and Lexa leans forward slightly, brushing their noses together but Clarke jumps back.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke is quick to say and she  _does_  sound sorry. Lexa can’t hear her over the shattering of her heart, however. The blonde is looking at Lexa with her eyes shining. “I—I’m not ready. To be with anyone.”

Clarke’s eyes always remind Lexa of the sky but right now, she feels like falling.

“Not yet,” Clarke whispers.

Lexa nods. It’s not a promise of a happy ending but it’s a start.

.

The signal looks like hope in Lexa’s eyes and maybe, just maybe—

 _Maybe what_?

.

Lexa doesn’t know what will happen tomorrow. She has plenty of wants and wishes—her people back, the Mountain Men dead, Clarke alive and  _well_  but she can’t let herself expect too much.

War takes too much away from her.

.

Clarke doesn’t talk about the kiss; Lexa doesn’t bring it up.

.

“It’s taking too long,” Clarke says, pacing around impatiently. Their warriors are stationed behind them, ready for battle and Lexa can feel her blood pumping with unease and apprehension.

Clarke is right—it  _is_  taking too long but she does not voice out her doubt.

“It takes as long as it takes,” Lexa whispers.

Clarke goes quiet. Lexa takes a deep breath. She has not allowed herself to think of what will happen next, of what the next chapter will unfold but if there is a chance—a possibility—that Clarke will stay alive in the following few hours then she must at least try.

“What will you do when it’s over?” she asks.

Clarke drops her gaze to the ground. “I have no idea,” she answers.

“What do you want?” It’s a simple question but Lexa can feel the heaviness of it once it’s out of her mouth.

It takes Clarke a while to answer and when she does, Lexa’s heart drops to her stomach. “Nothing,” she says but she changes her mind because she adds, “My people back. I can’t think past today.”

In the seconds that follow, Lexa makes a decision. “You should come with me to the Capitol,” she remarks, trying not to sound too committed with the idea. Clarke looks at her and Lexa meets her gaze. “Polis will change the way you think about us.”

 _About me_ , Lexa silently adds.

“You already have,” Clarke tells her, eyes earnest.

 _You already have_.

Lexa tries not to smile.

.

When she’s given the deal, Lexa’s first thought is not of her people. No, she has become too selfish for that. Her first thought jumps to Clarke and how completely devastated she will be, once Lexa shatters whatever hope she has left.

She has no choice. She cannot let thousands of people die. She cannot let the night end with more bloodshed.

She closes her eyes when she whispers, “Deal.”

*

(Lexa does not say “ _Remember me, remember us_.”

 She does not say “ _Please understand my choice_.”

 She does not say “ _I have loved you for centuries now_.”

She does not say any of that. It does not feel right. Clarke is staring at her, brokenhearted, eyes shattered and Lexa knows that any hope for scavenging whatever is left of their alliance will be too little, too late.

Instead, she says, “May we meet again.”)

*

(Because they always do)

*

 _fin_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> should I write a companion fic, based on Clarke's POV??? 
> 
> P.S.S. you can find me at heyasscroft.tumblr.com


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